


Unburied

by Expectoprongs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Also Greg is Greg, Alternate Universe, Asylum, BAMF John, Clueless Sherlock, Deception, Gen, Implied Torture, John cusses like a sailor, John is a badass, Meddlesome Mycroft is Meddlesome, Mental Instability?, Minor Character Death, Phobias, Revenge, Stalking, Torture, Unstable Stalker Moriarty, everything everyone knows is a lie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:32:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 23,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Expectoprongs/pseuds/Expectoprongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returned from his three year hiatus, he expected many different reactions from John. He anticipated happiness, anger, and confusion. He predicted hurt, comfort and hopefully redemption. He did not, however, expect John to be mentally unstable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holy Water

_~Three years after the Fall~_

Mrs. Hudson was out. She went out every Wednesday for an hour and forty five minutes to go to Tesco's and pick up groceries. She would then make her way back to the flat and go up the stairs and leave three bags of food outside the door of 221 B, knock three times and then go back down to her own living quarters. Fifteen minutes later, a shadowy figure would open the door silently and pick up the bags before shutting the door again. Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson would sigh. Sometimes she would cry. But either way, this was what happened every Wednesday without fail.

Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the entire world stood across the street on a Wednesday, watching as Mrs. Hudson hurried out of the building, her head down, shielding her from stares. She didn't notice her supposedly dead tenant, but Sherlock didn't expect her to. It had been three years, and he had given no word to her or John. How could he? One false move on his part and they would have died. So, he played his part like a good little angel and tracked down the assassins. It had taken three long years, but it was over. It was finally over. Moriarty was dead and they were all safe. He had won.

His heart had swelled when Mycroft informed him that John still lived at 221 B. John would always wait for him, even if he was uncertain if he was still alive. It made a warm feeling grow in Sherlock's chest just thinking about it. He couldn't wait to go back. Mycroft was already almost through clearing his name. Life was good.

The detective looked both ways across the street before crossing over. He stood in front of the place he called home (and damn it was good to be home) for a while before opening the door. He walked up the steps to his flat where John was unsuspecting. He had a speech in his head all planned out, he had rehearsed it in front of the mirror countless times, taking in to account all the different reactions his best friend could have. He covered all the bases. He was ready. Nervous, but ready.

He didn't knock, he just opened the door. Curiously, it was unlocked. He took a couple of steps in, and scanned the room, but no one was there. He hadn't seen John leave, where could he-

Sherlock's thoughts were cut off when a dark figure stepped out of the shadows (how the bloody hell had he missed that) and pressed the barrel of a gun to the back of his head.

"Get down." A gruff voice commanded. It sounded so familiar, yet different. Sherlock's thoughts were scrambled by the sudden ambush.

"I said GET DOWN." Sherlock obediently got down on his knees and put his hands on his head. Slowly, the man moved into his field of vision.

The man was on the short side, wearing a white, torn long sleeved shirt and faded jeans. He had stubble on his chin as though he hadn't had the time to shave in a while, and shaggy light brown hair. There was a cigarette clasped between the gunman's teeth. The blue eyes narrowed dangerously and Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat. This man, this was John. It must be, it looked sort of like him, why did he have a gun, why was his hair brown, why why…

John's eyes widened in relief.

"Oh, it's just you Sherlock. Heh, I didn't recognize you with your short blond hair." John lowered the gun and thumbed the safety on before stuffing it in the waistband of his jeans. "Sorry 'bout that," he said, helping his flat mate up. "You never know who'll come bursting in 221 B these days." He sighed and turned away before putting on the kettle.

Sherlock was dumb founded. There were several reasons why. Well, for one, John looked… different. He had lost a lot of weight, and looked scruffier. Two, and more importantly, John didn't even seem surprised he had shown up. He was supposedly dead, so why was John acting though he was expecting this to happen?

"John?" he spoke carefully. "Aren't you… surprised? I mean, I was dead, I mean, not really, but now…" all of his rehearsed speeches faded away in his confusion.

John turned around and glanced at him, mildly surprised.

"Well, he told me you were coming. He's been telling me for days now."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Who?"

"Moriarty."

Sherlock gulped and stared at John intently.

"John…" he said slowly. "Moriarty is dead."


	2. Chapter 2

_“John…” he said slowly. “Moriarty is dead.”_

John studied Sherlock for a long time, absently rubbing his arms. He opened and closed his mouths several times before eloquently squeaking, “What? What the fuck Sherlock? Of course he’s-“

Anything else he was going to say was cut off by the shrill ringing of a phone. John groaned and reached into his back pocket, before roughly opening his phone and growling “What.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and took a good long look at John. He was different somehow. He didn’t look like the same John that liked tea and jumpers and Chinese takeaway. He looked more dangerous, and little more insane.

When he looked in John’s eyes earlier, they weren't warm and fuzzy like they were before. They had darkened considerably from a cobalt blue into more of a bruised color. But that’s not what had shocked Sherlock the most. His eyes held the gleam of a manic genius too smart for his own good. The same gleam as Moriarty.

“Oh piss off,” John barked into his phone before uttering a string of profanities. “It’s all written in my file Holmes, I was in Afghanistan when that happened.” With that, Sherlock started, but John wasn't talking to him. “If you have a problem with it, take it up with my lawyer. Now stay out of my life!” John slammed his phone shut before shoving it back into his pocket.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock questioned.

“Yes.” John gave no indication that he would elaborate on what just happened, so Sherlock decided he would just leave it for the time being. John sighed. “Listen Sherlock, a lot has happened since you died. It would be best if I left for a couple of days. Just until I get things sorted out a little.”

“John, what’s going on?”

There was a long pause.

“I just need time to sort everything out.”

Hurt may or may not have flashed across Sherlock’s face, but it was gone within the blink of an eye.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock said stiffly. “This all must be pretty alarming for you, I mean; I've been dead for three years.”

John blinked owlishly at him.

“Sure… yeah. That’s it.” John’s phone rang again, and he cursed. “Ah, hold on.”

He turned his back to Sherlock when he answered the phone this time.

“Bugger.” and with that, he hung up the phone. He turned to Sherlock again, and his face was pale. “Sherlock, get out of here. Quick, go! Sherlock, run!” He shoved Sherlock towards the door, the latter doing nothing to stop John’s intrusive herding. It was only when John slammed the door that Sherlock snapped out of his daze. 

_What the hell…_

)O(

John turned away from the door, breathing heavily.

“I know you’re here, you insufferable prick.” There was a soft laugh from the depths of the flat.

“I told you so Johnny!” The voice floated from somewhere, seeming to come from everywhere at once. John growled.

“Show yourself!” He didn't even flinch when he felt a soft breath on his neck.

“Relax, dear. You’re so tense.” John turned slowly. Several emotions flickered across his face before settling on resignation.“John, John, John. I told you he was coming, and here he is… Is this how you imagined your reunion to be?” John deflated slightly at the man’s mocking tone.

“Fuck you, Jim.” He said halfheartedly. The Irishman just laughed again, dancing back a few feet so he could see John’s face clearly.

“He doesn't believe you,” Moriarty sneered, looking intently into his adversary’s eyes. “He thinks you’re crazy.”

“Maybe I am.” John said before turning away. He didn't even bother pointing a gun at the criminal this time. Last time he tried to shoot him, Moriarty got away and blew up a building in retaliation. Two hundred people had died.

Moriarty changed the subject abruptly.

“How’s the Ice Man been treating you?”

“He suspects me.” John said shortly.

“But Sherlock…”

“Doesn't.” John snapped. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

Jim held his hands up in mock surrender. “Whoa there doggy! Didn't mean to offend you.” He smiled disarmingly, but John saw right through it.

“What do you want Moriarty?” he ground out.

“Your soul…” Jim leered. John gave him an exasperated look.

“It’s been three years Jim. People have died…”

Moriarty smiled. “That’s what people do,” he said, smirking. “Do you remember Johnny? Our first date!”

“Three bloody years! Now Sherlock’s back… Christ.” John ran a hand into his too long hair and Jim backed off indulgently. If anything, it made John more uncomfortable.

“You know what I want…” Moriarty whispered.

“You want me,” John said tiredly. Jim walked towards John and lifted his hand towards the tired man’s face. He caressed it softly, his next words betraying the kindness of the gesture.

“I already unburied you. Now I will break you. Not even Sherlock will want you when I’m done. You’ll be mine, Johnny Boy!” He gripped the man’s face tightly, and with that, John seemed to snap out of his trance. He gripped the criminal’s wrist and twisted it expertly behind his back.

“That will never happen.” He hissed into the psychopath’s ear. He roughly let go of the mastermind. “Get the hell out of my flat.” Jim smirked and left through the window. John collapsed tiredly into a chair.

_What the hell am I supposed to do now?_

)O(

‘Mycroft -SH’

Something was going on, and he was sure there was more than what his brother was letting on.

‘How was the reunion brother? -MH’ the reply came moments later. Sherlock stifled a sneer and pocketed his phone. He walked for a couple minutes through the park he had gone to after being booted out of 221 B. He was determined to make Mycroft wait as long as possible before replying. After about twenty minutes before responding.

‘I will find out John’s situation, whether you help me or not. -SH’

Predictably: ‘It is a matter of national security. -MH’ Mycroft really had a way of blowing things out of proportion.

‘What of Moriarty? -SH’

‘I had the pleasure of dancing on his unmarked grave. -MH’ Sherlock could practically hear the smirk.  
‘Dead? -SH’

‘Undoubtedly. -MH’

_What on earth was John playing at? Has my absence really had that much of a toll on him?_

‘What about that call you made to him? –SH’

‘I had some suspicions about his past character. –MH’

‘Oh? –SH’

‘I believe the phrase I am looking for is… piss off. –MH’

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes and made his way back to the flat.


	3. Chapter 3

John stared out the window Moriarty had just climbed out of, before sighing. It was one thing to have the mastermind floating through his flat when Sherlock was "dead"… it's another animal entirely to have him around when Sherlock is up and… deducing. Rolling his eyes, he pushed his sleeve up and looked at his watch. It had been about an hour since he had pushed Sherlock out. By his calculations, it would take about thirty minutes for him to grill his brother, another twenty to sulk about lack of answers, and then a ten minute walk back to Baker Street. That gave him five minutes or so to compose himself. Give or take. Better make it three.

)O(

Sherlock walked into 221 B and quickly looked around. John was sitting in his usual seat, head bent over a novel and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. The smoke curled lazily over John's head before dispersing.

"Oh! Sherlock! You're back!" John looked genuinely pleased to see him. His face reflected a warm, pleasant surprise and the corners of his eyes crinkled the way they did whenever he was subtly happy. Just like old John. There was no trace of the hardened gunman he had seen an hour earlier. _Right._ "Sorry I kicked you out, it's just I got a call from Harry… I didn't want you to see me all upset."

Sherlock glimpsed into the corner, where a shattered vase laid forgotten. Evidence of grief or rage on behalf on his sister? Perhaps. He narrowed his eyes and scanned John for signs of activity. There were creases on his wrist suggesting that he had leaned his head on his hand for at least forty five minutes, and his cigarette was at least half way burnt out. He was one hundred and twenty nine pages into the novel he was reading, and based off his speculations of John's average reading pace, he had been reading it for approximately one hour and fifty seven minutes. The strain on the binding makes it clear it had been opened only two or three times… the yellowing on the outsides of the pages (from the nicotine in the cigarettes) shows that the majority of the one hundred and twenty nine pages were read in one sitting… the most recent sitting. That would be… today.

Satisfied, Sherlock looked up at John who still had an affectionate smile on his face. "That went terrible, I'm sure," he intoned carelessly before collapsing onto the couch. John ignored his snide comment.

"It's nice to have someone different in the flat for once," John said carefully. He eyed Sherlock shrewdly, gauging his reaction. Sherlock's face remained passively blank.

"I'm suppose," he said neutrally. It was silent in the room for a few awkward moments, until John's phone pinged a text.

)O(

John wasn't sure whether to be relieved that something broke the awkward tension in the room, or pissed off because seriously? What the hell. It was either Mycroft (deep shit) or Moriarty (deeper shit), and he honestly didn't feel like talking to either of them at the moment.

"I have to take this," he said instead, wanting to punch something. He walked out of the room slowly while digging his phone out of his pocket. He checked the display.

'Nice touch with the creases on your wrist. He totally bought it. –JM'

John groaned. He really couldn't get a break, could he?

'Not now Moriarty, I'm busy trying not to look like a fucking lunatic in front of my flat mate' he typed out angrily, hitting the send button without a thought.

'I didn't really get to talk to you about that, did I dear? –JM'

'Piss off, Sherlock's going to get deduce-y'

'He doesn't even suspect I'm alive. I'm really disappointed in him. -JM'

John decided not to grace that with an answer. He walked back into the sitting room, where Sherlock was still sprawled on the couch. His flat mate didn't even look at him when he entered the room. A thick feel of foreboding hung in the air. A couple minutes later, Sherlock finally decided to acknowledge his presence.

"John, would it be fair to say you're having a psychotic break from my absence?" His fingers were peaked under his chin, and he stared dispassionately at the ceiling.

"Sherlock! I can't bloody _believe_ you! You arrogant prat- I can't, damn you-"

"So I'm right?" Sherlock still didn't look at him.

"No Sherlock, just… no. You've been gone for three years, damn it… I waited for you!" His fingers itched, his gun flared hot against the small of his back from its snug spot in his waistband. "At least you could give me some God forsaken courtesy instead of acting like a… a prick." Sherlock remained motionless, riding out John's rant. John wanted to shake him up, tell him everything, that, damn it, Moriarty fucking succeeded in what he set out to do three long years ago. He only needed three bloody years to unbury his past and turn him into the killer he was all those years ago. But he still fucking couldn't tell Sherlock _anything_ , not with Mycroft's leash so tight around his neck. If he told Sherlock anything, Mycroft would catch wind of it. And then the gig would be up. It would be back to interrogations at Baskervilles for him. He remembered the needles to ground himself. "I need to… get some air. I'll see you later."

)O(

Three steps outside of Baker Street and his phone pinged again. When he checked it, he had to swallow a curse.

'Trouble in paradise? –MH'

John rubbed his temple, trying to assuage the headache forming there. He wasn't in the mood to deal with this shit.

'Piss off. You have no proof. I was in Afghanistan. I'm a goddamn doctor.' He sent it tiredly, and then continued walking down the street.

'0924. –MH' John had to take several deep breaths to keep himself from hyperventilating. It was his prison I.D. from when Mycroft had caught him trying to take him out of power.

_"Fascinating. I've never seen anything like you. It's a shame we have to be enemies. In a different life, we could have been friends." The dark haired prisoner closed his eyes and let a breath out of his nose as another needle slipped into his neck to add to the ones in his arms._

John shook his head harshly and stumbled. His stomach flipped with the potency of the flashback. It took a couple moments for him to force the memory back in the recesses of his mind. His phone, indifferent to the nausea he was suffering from, pinged again.

'Johnny… I have a game for you! –JM'

He must be in Hell, because there was no way anyone's life could suck this horribly.


	4. Chapter 4

Many people underestimated Mycroft Holmes. His subordinates, his colleagues, most of the people who knew his name but not him personally. Those who had even an inkling of who he was, what he could do, were assured mildly that he occupied only a minor position of the British government. And it wasn't a lie. It was a half truth, generally speaking.

The secret to Mycroft Holmes' success was in the fact that he had connections. It made him laugh that James Moriarty had thought that he and Sherlock were mirrors of one another. Mycroft completely disagreed. If anything, Moriarty and himself were more alike. His rise to power was a lot like the consulting criminal's, granted, it was a little less hands on and a little less... messy... but essentially it was the same. They had both started from nothing, made connections, used whatever they had to get to the top. The difference was Moriarty lost his mind in his ascent. Mycroft liked to think that he hadn't.

Right now, the man with the bumbershoot by his side sat in his office alone, a small glass of scotch resting on the table next to him. He didn't normally indulge, but once in awhile he thought he deserved to have a pleasant buzzing feeling in the back of his head. Perhaps that's what prompted him to take out his phone and text John Watson. He had sent Anthea out prior to slipping his phone out of his pocket and it sat, like lead, in his palm. His last text to the man flashed across the display. _0924_. Numbers that haunted him as much as they undoubtedly haunted John. He set his cell down and rested his head in his hands, collecting his thoughts.

The first truth: James Moriarty was dead. He was buried in a paupers field in an unmarked grave. He personally visited the morgue to make sure it wasn't a trick. He took perverse pleasure in the permanent grimace on the dead man's face. The man who caused him so much trouble with his little games was motionless in front of him.

The second truth: Sherlock was finally back. After three years, his foolish brother was able to mop up the mess. The assassins were dead. The backup assassins were dead. His brother was finally back to his precious army captain. On a side note, Mycroft reflected dully, maybe he shouldn't have lied to his brother about Watson's condition. He assured his brother all those years his flatmate was fine, getting along great, but in reality the man was deteriorating fast. He disappeared off Mycroft's radar for extensive periods of time and returned months later bloody and gaunt. It shouldn't have been possible. But he lost track of the man more and more as the years stretched on. He was a changed man. Or maybe not. Mycroft didn't like not knowing. And that lead to the last truth.

The inexorable truth: Captain John Watson was not who he said he was. That first glimpse of him on the CCTV that day he starting interacting with his brother peaked his interest. He looked an awful lot like a man he knew many years ago. A man who knew too much. He had a thousand names and even more masks to put on his face. The assassin.

In his rise to power in the government, there was an unknown party who had taken an unhealthy interest in his life. Shortly after, all of his business partners began dying off in seemingly innocent ways: a suicide here, a car crash there and so on. But Mycroft knew that there was no such thing as coincidence in politics. He knew he was next. He constantly watched the CCTV, he raked over the testimonies of his dead colleagues, and all of them had a common denominator. A dark figure in the shadows, always watching. He gathered all of his resources and had the man taken into custody. It had taken fourteen months to find him, the man was clever, always moving, covering his tracks, killing sporadically. But Mycroft always won. When he had the assassin in custody, he grilled him for information in every way he knew. Violence, sensory deprivation, psychological torture, kindness. He even had the man moved to Baskervilles at one point and used as a lab rat for experimental drugs. Nothing worked. The only thing he had accomplished was giving the killer a minor phobia of needles. Then the man escaped, and for the first time in his life, Mycroft was truly afraid. He had done things to this person that were truly terrible, even worse than what he did years later to the late James Moriarty. But, to Mycroft's never ending relief, the man fell off the criminal map. He never heard anything again. Until John Watson.

John Watson made him nervous. There were so many similarities between him and the assassin, yet his background was impeccable. He had a medical degree. His professors and classmates attested to him being there. He was even in the school records. His army superior only had praise for him, and lamented the fact that he got shot in the shoulder. And then he met the man, in person, a poor broken army doctor with PTSD and his fears were completely assuaged. He was just paranoid. Soon after there was Jim Moriarty and Mycroft drew his gaze away from John for a moment. When Moriarty finally died, and Sherlock left, he looked back at John and kept an eye on him. It was the least he could do for his brother. But the man was morphing and changing before his eyes. He attributed it to grief, but it was something more. This man... something was buried in him, and it was being unburied, slowly but surely. Mycroft didn't like it one bit. Now Sherlock was asking questions and, God, when did his life get so messy? Sometimes he hated being powerful.

0O0

_'Johnny... I have a game for you! -JM'_

John sat in a pub, completely unaware of what was going on around him. He was on his fourth pint, but he wasn't even feeling buzzed. The bartender was giving him strange looks, as he wasn't talking to anyone. He was just staring at his phone, at the damning text on his display. He set down the empty glass a tiny bit too hard. It made a loud satisfying thud on the counter. It was sad, he reflected, that he could hardly get drunk anymore. He built up his tolerance to alcohol in his years as a trained killer, and it affected him still, after all these years.

"You sure can hold your alcohol buddy." The bartender finally said, looking at John critically. The assassin smiled lazily at the barkeeper, making the man uncomfortable.

"Runs in the family," he lied easily. He barely knew his family. His mom was a prostitute and his dad was a con man. They lived modestly in an apartment in the middle of London- John had run away at the age of five and lived on the streets during his childhood. He tried not to think of them too much. He had tried to visit them once, after he had established himself in the world. His mom was dead, his dad had told him. Killed by a drunk thug a couple years prior. John had spent months hunting down his mother's killer, and then eviscerated him with great pleasure. He never contacted his family again.

"Hey man, you alright?" The bartender had honest concern on his face, something you shouldn't have in his line of business.

"Yeah, I'm just lost in thought." The man gave him a sympathetic smile and poured him another pint.

"I'm going to have to cut you off after this, but this is on the house."

"Thanks." He brought the drink to his lips before nearly dropping it when someone tugged on his jumper. He looked around and saw no one. He was about to turn back to his drink when there was another, more insistent tug. He looked down and saw a little girl in a ratty pink dress. John furrowed his brow. "You shouldn't be in here young lady." The girl's eyes swelled with tears. The assassin vaguely remembered her to be part of Sherlock's homeless network.

"Please help." she said, the last word strangled and wet. John's heart clenched a little. He set down his drink and the bartender shrugged. Without sparing a glance back at the man, John followed the girl out of the bar and onto the dark, glistening streets of London.


	5. Chapter 5

_"Please help." she said, the last word strangled and wet. John's heart clenched a little. He set down his drink and the bartender shrugged. Without sparing a glance back at the man, John followed the girl out of the bar and onto the dark, glistening streets of London._

As John made his way out of the bar, the little girl's hand reached for his and he instinctively gripped it tightly. Her small, grubby fingers were dwarfed by his much larger calloused ones. She didn't seem to mind however, as she led him through what seemed to be a thousand back alleys, some he knew, others he didn't. They were moving at a decent clip, and if John were less in shape he would be out of breath. All the while, the girl was talking at light speeds.

"My parents, they're in trouble- they told me- to find you- and I found you- will you make them better sir- I found you in that bar- and they promised you'd get them all better again- we're almost- there- watch out for- that bump in the road- sorry- we're here!"

They had stopped in the middle of an alleyway. It was a dead end, a heavy wall of brick blocking any further attempts to continue. There was a door on either side of them. John's senses were on high alert, something was _wrong, wrong, wrong_. He was so busy checking for exit points that he almost didn't notice the girl had pried her hand away from his death tight grip. He looked down at the urchin, scanning her features for any mal intent or deceit. All he saw was a face depicting honest concern and eyes brimming with guilty tears.

"I'm so sorry sir. I'm sorry." She brought her wrist up to her nose and sniffled into it. "I din wanna, but he made me and he has my mum and da and he said if I din bring you here he'd shoot em." The girl's diction got harder to decipher as she became more and more visibly upset, but John gleaned enough information to know what had just transpired.

"Moriarty, dammit!" He caught a glimpse of metal on an adjacent rooftop and pushed the girl down onto the pavement roughly. "Get down!" he shouted, pulling out his gun and blindly shooting. There was a grunt and a satisfying thump. Wounded, not killed. He could work with that. He looked down at the urchin and saw she was sobbing silently, working herself into hysterics, poor thing. The ex-assassin gripped the girl's shoulders and shook them gently. "Listen. It's not your fault, I forgive you." He pulled her up onto her feet and gave her a little push. "Run. I'll do my best to find your parents, okay?"

"Th-th-thank y-you," the girl hiccupped before running down the alley from whence they came. John huffed out an annoyed sigh.

"You could have just texted me," he called out into the seemingly empty night. "Honestly, that was very… not good." His phone pinged, and he opened the text with a snarl, thoroughly annoyed.

'I could have, but that would be boring. –JM'

He could practically hear him smirking, the bastard.

"I'm not doing this right now Moriarty. I am pissed beyond belief and I am going home!" He turned on his heel and prepared to walk back through the labyrinth of alleys, relieved he had memorized the route as they had been running. Before he even took one step, however, the door on his left opened and a huge man stepped out, carrying a gun.

_Fantastic,_ John though angrily, already moving into action. He struck out viciously, hitting the man's solar plexus and used the momentary disorientation to grip his broad shoulders and slam him into the wall. There was a cracking noise as the man's head hit the brick, and the thug slumped to the ground, useless.

Adrenaline was surging through John's veins, and he felt better, more alive than he had in a long time.

"You're getting sloppy Jim!" he shouted smugly. His phone pinged again.

'Oh Johnny~ you make me all tingly when you take control like that. –JM' John sighed, feeling the rush leave his body instantly when he remembered who he was really up against.

"Sick bastard," the killer muttered before turning to leave again. Another chime indicated Moriarty had heard the comment. Rolling his eyes, John opened the message.

'Tsk, tsk Johnny. You're getting sloppy… Behind you~ -JM'

John's breathing quickened as he turned around quickly, dropping his phone onto the unforgiving concrete. He was too late. Another man was there, already covering John's nose and mouth with a rag.

_Damned chloroform._

0O0

Sherlock was annoyed. Well, annoyed was an understatement. He was livid.

This was supposed to be his greatest victory, his reunion with John. They were supposed to hug and make tea and solve crimes again; everything was supposed to go back to normal. But _apparently_ Mycroft had lied to him, and John had gone off the deep end. Mycroft had lied to him, and he hadn't noticed.

Sherlock didn't mind crazy people too much. In fact, they were fascinating. Much more palatable than those annoying ordinary people. But John had never been ordinary, had he?

John Watson, the anomaly that made the sociopath care.

Now, he was an unordinary crazy. That could get messy really quickly. Messes were tedious. But even a John mess was still good. Why did he think that? Was it perhaps because he thought of John as a friend? Need further data.

Conclusion? Ask someone who knows.

Molly? Too socially awkward to be reliable.

Mrs. Hudson? Too outdated and motherly. Likely to get concerned and ask questions. Tedious.

Mycroft? …No.

That left Lestrade. Lestrade… or Greg… sometimes went out for a pint with John. He was obviously the best choice in this matter. Sherlock picked up the phone and prepared to call Scotland Yard's Detective Inspector.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for language

Greg Lestrade was tired. And rightfully so. A triple homicide was being investigated, and it wasn't going very well. Some stupid intern had messed up the crime scene while trying to collect DNA material. As much his crew hated Sherlock's snide comments, it was a necessary evil. They needed the Consulting Detective's insight on this one. Besides, he was a lot more bearable after John had started living with him. Even Anderson couldn't deny that.

Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's invasive brother had called a couple hours ago to inform him that Sherlock was in fact, not dead. Greg couldn't really find it in himself to be surprised. He just accepted it with weary resignation and a fleeting when did this become my life? moment. After he processed that, yes, Sherlock really had escaped death he began to panic. He rang up Mycroft and asked about the mad bomber. Surely, if one genius survived, the other did also? Bit all he had gotten for his troubles was a condescending laugh and a smug reassurance that only Sherlock survived the ordeal. Somehow, irrationally, it didn't make him feel any better. But for the sake of his waning sanity, he dismissed his worries about the criminal and focused on the task at hand. Now that Sherlock was back, he could use his intuition.

The tired Detective Inspector dug around in his coat pocket until his hand came into contact with his mobile. He took it out and began to call Sherlock (number 3 on his speed dial, after the Yard and his lawyer but before his ex-wife) when his phone abruptly began to ring. He nearly dropped it when he read the caller I.D. It was Sherlock. Sherlock never called, ever. He only texted. So he was rightfully wary when he answered the phone.

"Hello?" There was a long silence and Greg wondered if Sherlock had accidentally called him.

"Lestrade." Came the stiff voice of Sherlock over the phone.

"...Is there something you want?"

"I'm sure my brother already informed you that I'm alive." It wasn't a question, so Greg didn't know how to answer.

"Yes." he stated uncertainly.

"Well, I wouldn't normally call you but I need your..." There was another pause as Sherlock seemed to gather his thoughts. "...advice on something." Lestrade almost dropped his phone again, but quickly composed himself.

"Of course. Does it have something to do with John? Sherlock, is John alright? What's happening?"

"John's fine." the voice on the other line snapped a little too quickly. "He's out right now. I just needed to ask someone and you were the best option..." Sherlock trailed off uncomfortably. Greg took a long, deep breath in and then out. He wanted a drink.

"It's alright Sherlock, just ask."

"Would you consider John a friend... to me?"

"Anyone who's mad enough to put up with your bullshit is definitely a friend, Sherlock." Greg said with conviction. "There's something between you two that's deeper than friendship, like brothers." There was an awkward cough on the other end, and then:

"You've been watching too much telly." And the line went dead, leaving Lestrade to wonder if he got through to the man at all. For such a brilliant person, Sherlock could be so dull at times.

0O0

John awoke painfully, the bright fluorescent lights bouncing off the white walls blinding him. He tried to rub the fog out of his eyes but he found his arms tied behind him. At this realization, adrenaline flooded his body and he awoke fully. He was tied to a metal folding chair, zip ties holding his wrists uncomfortably behind his back and binding his ankles to the legs of the chair. There was no way he was getting out without seriously injuring himself, something he wasn't keen on doing. He decided to wait it out before he did anything drastic. After all, this wasn't the first time he found himself in this position.

Over the course of the three years Sherlock was gone, Moriarty had captured him dozens of times. He had awoken in a lot worse ways than this in the criminal mastermind's custody. Usually when he was tied to a chair, the man just wanted to talk. John hoped that Jim would stick to the pattern. The wounds on his arms still weren't quite healed from the last time he went head to head with the Irishman.

The ex-assassin took time to look around the room. It was pretty small, but not on claustrophobic proportions. There was enough room for another person to comfortably stand or sit with him. The walls were whitewashed, and the floor was concrete. The ceiling had large fluorescent lighting and a camera was surreptitiously hidden in an air vent placed in the wall. Based on the pain in his neck, he had been unconscious for nearly three whole hours, putting the time to about one in the morning. He absently wondered what Sherlock was doing right now. Probably brooding about how he hadn't come back to the flat yet.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door to his prison opening. He schooled his features to look bored, but he was really on high alert. Not too shockingly, it was Jim who entered, with another metal chair. The madman broke into a grin when he saw him, as if he hadn't known he was there. Bastard.

"Johnny! How nice of you to drop by!" He closed the door behind him and unfolded the chair, and sat in it in one fluid motion. John scowled at him.

"Go to hell." he said angrily, straining at his bonds.

"Now, now puppy, no need to get upset. Daddy just wants to have a little chat." Moriarty crossed his legs and sat back, mischief gleaming in his eyes. John internally sighed with relief, he really wasn't in the mood to be tortured or played with, not tonight. Or ever, if he was perfectly honest. His relief didn't echo onto his features, however; his eyes were still hard with rage. He wouldn't give Moriarty the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected him. The criminal seemed to see right through his facade, however, and grinned even more widely. "John~" he drew out the 'o' condescendingly, making the killer cringe internally. "if I had wanted to kill you this time, I could have done so in... how many ways?"

"Seven." John ground out flatly. Moriarty's eyebrows went up comically.

"What's the seventh?" he asked, genuinely curious. John tilted his head towards the air vent, making his shoulders strain a bit.

"Gas in the air vents." Jim seemed to consider this for a moment, before his mouth was set in a mildly impressed smirk.

"Very well. I'll count that." John rolled his eyes.

"What do you want, Jim." He asked for a second time. When had his life become so fucked up?

"To play a Game." John groaned.

"I am not, no matter what you do, jumping off a bloody building." Jim actually had the audacity to laugh.

"A different Game, my dear. Doing that again would be boring." John sighed. He saw no way out but to just go along with what the madman said, at least for now. He could get him back later.

"What do you have in mind."

"Oh, you're going to love it Johnny Boy! It's absolutely sublime!" John frowned as Moriarty uncrossed his legs and leaned forward into his personal space. Jim's face was lit up with an insane grin, spelling out his doom. Against his will, he felt his blood run cold. He forced his fear down harshly, reminding himself he had been in worse situations than this.

"Just give it to me straight Moriarty." The madman frowned slightly and leaned back, allowing John to breath.

"I thought I told you to call me Jim," he said a bit menacingly. John held his gaze unflinchingly.

"I don't answer to madmen." he ground out. There was a tense silence before Moriarty smiled again.

"You truly are something, John Watson. I don't know how I missed that at the pool all those years ago."

"Save it, Jim. Just tell me what you want or let me go."

"Here's the Game: Let's see how long it will take for dear Sherly to think you're crazy and put you away for good." John froze.

"That sounds like a terrible idea." He said slowly. Moriarty ignored him.

"If you're still walking the streets in three months, I will leave you and Sherlock alone for good. You'll never hear from me again. But if I win, and Sherlock admits you into an asylum, you'll be mine John Watson. And all Lestrade's forces and all Mycroft's men will never be able to find you again."


	7. Chapter 7

_"If you're still not in a mental asylum in three months, I will leave you and Sherlock alone for good. You'll never hear from me again. But if I win, and Sherlock thinks you're crazy, you're mine John Watson. All Lestrade's forces and all Mycroft's men will never be able to find you again."_

There was a thick silence that settled over the room. The consulting criminal leaned back into his uncomfortable metal chair, his gaze equally calculating and menacing. He could see John's mind moving at a hundred miles per hour, looking at all of his options, sifting through every possible escape route. He stifled a giggle when he saw John's head bow in defeat. But Jim knew better. He saw the flash of fire in the man's eyes, and knew Johnny wouldn't go down without a fight. It would be a Game hard won, but won all the same.

Oh, what he wouldn't do to have John Watson in his organization indefinitely. It was in equal measures because of fascination and revenge. He would love to make the assassin scream for all the trouble he had put him through in the past three years. And after he had broken John, for real this time, he would keep him, away from Sherlock and Mycroft and all of those snooping, clueless sods who dared to presume they knew what John was capable of. They were nothing but kings and queens of a doomed wasteland, fighting in vain a war for London they had lost years ago. Jim held all the cards, he knew all of their secrets... he was just waiting for them to catch up.

Waiting in vain.

Jim's mouth curled up into a mirthless smile. At least he would have Johnny to keep him company.

John must have caught the Irishman smiling, because his head snapped up from his previous hunched position. Every tensed muscle in the man's body screamed for blood, his face twisted into a mask of rage. It could have been his imagination, but he could have swore he heard John's teeth grinding together.

"You sick fuck." the killer ground out, straining against his bonds. The metal chair creaked ominously, but held true.

The first fallacy: John Watson was not the lap dog he led everyone to believe. He was wild, untamed, a survivor. He could kill in a blink of an eye, he could read all of your tells and crush every secret you held dear from you in the most brutal ways. He could devise a bomb out of office supplies in three minutes flat and diffuse one in half the time. John was a wolf in sheep's clothing, and James Moriarty loved the challenge of it.

Jim just smiled at the enraged man, playing with fire and basking in every second of it. "Now now, Johnny, no need to get excited." He smiled placatingly, and ruffled the man's hair, earning him a growl. "Consider this the counterblow in our little boxing match. You took something from me, John Watson. Consider this the reckoning." All the color drained from John's face, and he sagged against his bonds. The fight seemed to leave the man as quickly as it had come. Jim smiled sickeningly sweet. "I owe you."

The last time he had uttered these three words, it was to certain consulting detective. It had all been a harmless Game between him and Sherlock, he knew the outcome before the Game even began. They would both live to tell the tale of the Reichenbach Fall. So Jim had meant the menacing words in more of a jest, not that he would ever tell the detective.

Now, the stakes were higher. John and he were playing for blood. The words weren't a joke any longer.

The second fallacy: Despite what the Holmes brothers might tell you, James Moriarty is a man. He felt the same emotions as anyone else, maybe even more so. He felt acute pain and anger when John Watson had killed Sebastian Moran, his only confidant and (dare he say it) friend. That's when things had started getting nasty between the assassin and the criminal. That's when they started leaving scars. It wasn't a mind game any more. It was a physical match of anger and hurt, revenge and survival. They both lashed out like wounded animals, causing as much destruction upon the other as possible.

But Jim was willing to overlook it, in the long run. Sebastian was an unfortunate casualty in the war for John Watson. He would not die in vain. He would have John in his grasp soon, and he would pay for the death of his right hand man... even more so than he had already. Then: the endgame. John would take the place of the very man he had killed. And he would do so willingly.

As if reading Moriarty's thoughts, John tensed. "I will never join you." he said with quiet conviction. "I will kill you, I will burn your kingdom to the ground, and I will ruin you. I will not stop until you are six feet under next to your right hand man. I will never quit until you are burning in Hell where you belong."

"You shouldn't make promises you can't keep, Johnny." Moriarty said, playing down the man's threat. But he felt an iron vice around his heart, and for the first time ever, James Moriarty wasn't sure he would win this war against the man who was prepared to lose everything to survive. To win. He looked to his adversary's face and saw nothing but calm resolution. Jim leaned forward and moved his mouth near the assassin's ear. "The time starts now, Johnny Boy," the mastermind whispered, reveling in John's involuntary shiver. He gave a hand signal and a burly man entered the cell. "You can run all you want, but you can't escape your past." A needle slipped into John's neck, and the man slumped forward, unconscious. "Pleasant dreams."

The third fallacy: Jim wasn't always the suave man he told himself he was. On the way out of the room, John's words echoed in his head, and James Moriarty was worried.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had chapters 8-17 completed on my other account for a long while and I forgot to post them here. This story (as well as my others) are on hiatus until I finish a Hannibal fanfiction I've been working on. Sorry for the wait/inconvenience.

_The third fallacy: Jim wasn't always the suave man he told himself he was. On the way out of the room, John's words echoed in his head, and James Moriarty was worried._

0O0

John woke to the feeling of cobblestone digging uncomfortably into his back. Everything was throbbing, and he was momentarily disoriented, but it took only moment for him to get his bearings. He was lying on his back in the very alley he was taken from a few hours earlier. There was no trace of any struggle, which gave the whole encounter with Moriarty a dreamlike, surreal quality to it. But John Watson could still feeling the chilling breath of the Irishman brush against his ear, and he knew it was real. He heard thunder rumble in the distance, and got up slowly. Patting at his pockets, he was relieved to find his cell phone was still there. He dug it out and began to dial an old number buried deep in the archive known as his contacts. Fat raindrops were falling on the screen, distorting the display to a point where John had to impatiently wipe at it with his sleeve. He pressed the phone to his ear and waited.

0O0

James Moriarty was never one to back from a challenge... and what a challenge John Watson was. His very name was an enigma, there was no records of his true title, and it was obvious it wasn’t John Watson. He had so many plans, they all buzzed around in his head. Ways to make the normally measured assassin look unstable enough for Sherlock to be worried. That in itself was an excitement. Only John Watson could draw the emotion of worry from the normally sociopathic Sherlock. He was looking forward to the coming weeks.

0O0

John let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he heard the telltale click of someone picking up the phone on the other end. There was a heavy pause, but John didn’t have long to wait for his contact to speak.

“Hello?” an irritated voice came from the other end. 

“Harry.” John breathed into the mouthpiece of his phone. He knew there were at least two parties watching him on the CCTV, and he didn’t want to give away any more than he had to.

“Jonathan?” the voice was one of wary hope, something that made John’s heart clench.

“Yeah Harry, it’s me.”

“Dear God, you bastard, you haven’t called in years!” John cringed at the tone in his surrogate sister’s voice. 

“Listen Harry, I’m in deep shit this time. We need to talk, face to face.”

“This isn’t about Mycroft is it? I told you that man was trouble, you should have killed him as soon as you got away from the fucker.” John could practically see the bloodlust in his friend’s face. They had a lot of history together, John had known her since he was twenty. He knew every one of her expressions and quirks.

“No, not that deep of shit.” John sighed. “I’m right next to The Broken Moon. Meet me there?”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” 

“Thanks.” John said, but Harry had already hung up. 

The killer smiled at his friend’s antics. He had met the stricken barista on the streets more than twenty years ago. She was very, very good with computers, and had managed to get herself on the government’s radar. Not in a good way. There was a hit on her, she would have died if he hadn’t noticed the red dot wavering on the back of her head. It seemed like it was just yesterday... he had thrown her to the ground and grabbed the pistol he always kept in his waistband. An expert marksman even at that young of age, he had shot the sniper with no fuss. The girl, who he later learned was named Harry, thanked him profusely, dragging him to her apartment where they had drank liquor and exchanged stories. When she heard that he was a fledgling assassin, she grinned and ran off to her computer. Two hours later, she came back smiling smugly and proclaimed that he had a fake identity as her brother John Hamish Watson. They had been best friends since.

0O0

Sherlock paced back and forth, as he had been for nearly three hours non stop. It was highly irregular for John to be gone this long without calling or texting him. It was now four in the morning. Most of the upstanding bars had closed, only the seedy ones remained open. Ones that John would never step foot in. At least the John he used to know. This new John... well he wasn’t quite sure what he was capable of. This frustrated and intrigued him to no end. He decided, that when John eventually came back to flat, he would talk to him. 

0O0

When John arrived at the Broken Moon tavern, Harry was already there, sitting in a table in the corner. When she noticed he had arrived, her eyes lit up.

“John!” she called out with a smile. Despite the unsettling situation he found himself in earlier, the assassin couldn’t help but smile back. 

“Harry, it’s so good to see you!” With that, his sister’s smile vanished.

“I thought you were dead.” she said, scowling. “You never call me, you twit!” She smacked him on the back of the head, and he winced good naturedly.

“I was really busy.” he said evasively.

“The last time you talked to me, Sherlock had committed suicide.” John’s face remained impassive, but his closest friend saw through it. “He’s not really dead, is he? Is that why you haven’t been talking to me?”

“No, Harry, that’s not it. It’s a lot worse.”

“But he is alive, right?” John scowled. The hacker was too smart for her own good.

“Yes,” he said curtly. “But the reason why I wasn’t calling was because I was compromised. A man by the name of James Moriarty found me.”

“Found you...” Harry echoed meaningfully, color draining from her face. John nodded gravely.

“God Jonathan. Moriarty... that’s like the biggest name in the crime empire. Even I know his name.”

“I know.”

“Well, what’s happening?”

“We’ve got bad blood between us, and now he’s closing in on me.”

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked solemnly, knowing this was probably life or death for her brother. A waiter came over and set down two Stellas, which John sipped gratefully. He missed the look the man gave him.

“Yes. The flat I’m in is bugged by both Mycroft and Moriarty. I was wondering...”

Harry smiled.

“My specialty. Anything for you.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. They drank their beers in silence.

0O0

There was a knock on the door of the penthouse Moriarty was staying in. He had been lying in bed, reading East of Eden by John Steinbeck. He grumbled and viciously dog eared the page, before slamming the book shut and climbing out from under the duvet. Only informants knew this address, so there must be news on John. His foul mood dissipated instantly at the thought.

While walking to the door, he smoothed down his hair a bit. It wouldn’t do for his empire to start thinking of him of as a human being... Jim smirked at the thought. He reached the door and opened it, schooling his face into a heavy scowl. The man, dressed in casual bar attire, shuddered a little and looked down to the floor. There was a slight sheen on his forehead, indicating nervousness.

“Well?” Moriarty said impatiently. He was at a good part of his book, god damn it!

“There’s a- I found- John Watson was at the B-broken Moon.” The man stopped, finally looking up at the mastermind’s face. There was a gleeful glint in the Irishman’s eyes, one that didn’t match the murderous look on his face.

“And?”

“He was w-with someone, sir.”

“Who was it? Spit it out!”

“Someone named Harry Watson.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had chapters 8-17 completed on my other account for a long while and I forgot to post them here. This story (as well as my others) are on hiatus until I finish a Hannibal fanfiction I've been working on. Sorry for the wait/inconvenience.

Mycroft knew John Hamish Watson hadn’t been back to the flat, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. But he couldn’t help being shocked anyways. He expected that once Sherlock came back, John would settle down, begin acting normal again. What was wrong with the ex-army doctor? Something was up, and he could tell Sherlock was catching on too. John Watson hadn’t been the same since the Fall.

But was he truly the assassin he had interrogated so many years ago? If so, he posed a great risk to him and potentially his brother. He didn’t have any proof, the sessions at Baskervilles had not been taped, and all people on that job were either dead or off the grid. Mycroft found himself in an unusual position. He was painted into a figurative corner.

Even if John Watson was not the assassin, something was still off. According to the cameras he placed in his brother’s flat, John apparently thought that James Moriarty was still alive. Mycroft knew for a fact that demon had been sent to hell, but even if he were alive, he would have seen him come into 221 B because of the cameras installed. 

Conclusion? 

John Watson is crossing the line into instability, and if he fell too far, who would take actions against him, assassin or not.

0O0

“Thanks so much Harry,” John said warmly, genuinely. “It was so nice to see you again.”

“I’ll have the cameras scrambled within two hours. Just promise to call me, alright?”

“Alright.” John sighed as they hugged and both exited the bar, going their separate ways.

0O0

Harry Watson, John’s sister. Apparently they were closer than either of them let on. 

Moriarty stood in the doorway, in thought. The informant was beginning to sweat, the silence unsettling him. Jim looked up, as if he had forgotten the man was there and smirked slightly.

“Stay there.” he said quietly, leaving his post. The poor informant smiled tentatively, expecting payment. Moriarty grabbed his phone and his gun, attaching the silencer and loading it. He wandered back to the waiting man, dialling the number of an experienced gunman he knew. He put the phone in between his shoulder and his ear, waiting for the man to pick up. When he was standing back in the doorway, he cocked the gun and pulled the man towards him, shooting his efficiently in the temple. He let go of the body, letting it thump on the ground. The Irishman closed the door and walked away from the corpse disinterestedly. The line connected, and Moriarty grinned.

“Hello?” a voice grumbled from the other end.

“Sigmund, it’s me, Moriarty.”

“Something you need?”

“Yes, there’s a body I need you to clean up back at my flat, and a person I need you to kill for me, please,” he practically purred into the receiver. The criminal mastermind took his gun apart and cleaned it as he told the gunman the description of his next victim.

0O0

John arrived hesitantly arrived back at 221 B, hoping, praying that Sherlock was asleep. Luck was not on the assassin’s side, however, as Sherlock was perched in his usual chair very much awake. John swallowed a groan.

“Evening.” he said curtly, making a hasty retreat to his room. Before he could get there, Sherlock’s voice rang out.

“John?” He cursed silently and turned back towards his flat mate.

“Sherlock?” he said impatiently, waiting for the man to say something. The detective looked a bit at a loss, before licking his lips. It was a nervous habit that he had never displayed before, and it made John suspicious. Was he pretending to be nervous to make John feel more at ease?

“I made some tea, but it’s cold now.” Sherlock said a bit stiffly. John immediately felt bad for suspecting his friend. 

“It’s alright Sherlock. I’ll just heat it up, okay?” Sherlock looked a little less stiff, and he smiled.  
“That would suffice.” The settled into companionable silence as John stuck the two mugs of tea into the microwave. The silence was broken when Sherlock spoke again. “Did you have fun at the bar?” John didn’t even need to ask how he knew, he probably reeked of alcohol and smoke.

“Yes, I met up with my sister.” Not necessarily a lie.

“Did you work out your differences.” Sherlock sounded uninterested, but John appreciated the gesture.

“Yes.” he said simply. The microwave beeped, and John took out the scalding hot mugs without even flinching. John looked back at Sherlock to see that he was staring at his hands. John felt a bit uncomfortable, but he ignored his paranoia. “Sugar, milk?”

“Neither.” John put a bit of sugar in his and set the tea on the table. Sherlock grabbed at his and sipped it appreciatively. He quickly put down the mug and commented. “It’s hot.” John nodded and took a sip of his. 

“I suppose it is.” His phone rang, the caller I.D. proclaiming that his sister was calling. He looked at Sherlock with an apology on his lips, but his friend merely waved him away.

“You better take that, I’m guessing your sister wants to make a repeat date.” John hummed in agreement, before leaving the room and flipping his phone open.

“Hey John,”

“Harry, what’s the word?”

“It was pretty simple to scramble the coding. You’re camera free.”

“Thanks Harry.” John could have laughed. No more Moriarty and Mycroft breathing down his neck.

“Listen,” now that John was paying attention, he could tell his sister was panicking. John’s blood ran cold. “Someone’s following me John. What do I do?” Harry was breathing heavily, as if she was running. 

“Where are you?” 

“They’re on the roof Jonathan, they’ve been trailing me for three blocks.” A sob.

“Harry! Where are you? Can you make it to Baker Street?”

“John!” The line went dead, and John felt himself sweating. His hands were shaking, and he felt something he hadn’t felt in a while. Rage. Bloodlust. Untempered anger. He heard something cracking and he realized it was his phone. Sherlock walked into the room with a searching look.

“John?” John pushed past him, towards the door.

“I’m going out!” he growled. He ran out the door of the flat, down the stairs and into the night air. He stood there outside, helpless. He had no idea where Harry was, he didn’t know where to go. He took out his slightly dented phone and punched in Moriarty’s number. The line connected on the third ring.

“Johnny! What a pleasant surprise.”

“What’d you do to her you bastard.” John growled into the phone.

“ _I_ didn’t do anything to her Johnny Boy,” The Irishman lilted with thick, fake innocence. Seething, John slammed the phone shut again. He began walking towards the bar he was at, hoping beyond hope to find his sister before anything happened to her.

0O0

Mycroft received a text from a lacky and frowned in distaste. He much preferred talking face to face or at least over a phone. Sherlock sneered that he was old fashioned, and maybe he was. He wasn’t going to apologize for it.

He looked at his phone, and sneered angrily at the contents.

_Sir, it seems as though the cameras in your brother’s flat are down._

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a deep breath, counting to ten. It wasn’t Sherlock... if it was, he would have been getting boastful texts already. This was John’s doing, he just knew it. 

0O0

John reached the Broken Moon, and continued walking. His blinding anger was slowly draining, replaced with horrible, gnawing worry. Suddenly, he got a text from Harry’s phone. John practically cried with relief.

He opened the text and saw a picture, with no caption. It looked like just a blur at first glance, but John looked closer, squinting to see the details on his old phone. What he saw made his heart drop. It was a lump, a person sprawled on the sidewalk, and a pool of red seeping around it. 

It was Harry.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had chapters 8-17 completed on my other account for a long while and I forgot to post them here. This story (as well as my others) are on hiatus until I finish a Hannibal fanfiction I've been working on. Sorry for the wait/inconvenience.

_He opened the text and saw a picture, with no caption. It looked like just a blur at first glance, but John looked closer, squinting to see the details on his old phone. What he saw made his heart drop. It was a lump, a person sprawled on the sidewalk, and a pool of red seeping around it._

_It was Harry._

For the first time since he was a child, he felt tears well up in his eyes. They weren’t the fake tears he conjured when he needed them, they weren’t even tears from physical pain. No, these were worse. These were tears of agony to the deepest level. He could feel the remnants of his fragile control and psyche split apart, leaving a broken shell of who he once was. His chest clenched, he felt as though he was falling through the air at a million miles per hour. Harry, his sister, his best friend was dead. And it was all his fault. 

He took a couple moments standing still, head bowed, wallowing in self hate and anguish, but not long. Not nearly long enough. He didn’t have the luxury to grieve like an ordinary person, not now that he was on Moriarty’s radar. He was playing a Game now, and if he paused for too long, he would be obliterated. John Watson took all of his regret, and grief, and shoved it in the back of his fractured soul and trekked on. With the absence of his sadness, he was flooded with deadly focus and determination. He picked himself up, and moved on. 

0O0

“This is above our pay grade, Mr. Holmes. Whoever did this did a hell of a job of it.”

A nameless man stood before Mycroft, face devoid of any emotion. Mycroft only hired the best, not men plagued with useless anxiety. In this moment, however, he almost wished the man would show some fear. It would give him some satisfaction. He couldn’t snap at the man, it would be unprofessional. He wasn’t his brother.

Mycroft had his best men working on the camera feeds, but they were still scrambled. There seemed to be no way to set them right, much to his frustration. He knew it knew it was Watson’s doing, damn him. The static on the screens were incriminating evidence to his tampering. And there was nothing he could do about it. Yet.

0O0

John had been walking at a brisk pace for only a couple minutes when he found the body of his sister. She was in an alley, painfully still. No breath stirred her corpse, no life animated it. She was truly dead. It wasn’t a trick. 

He moved slowly towards her, noting that her face was still contorted in a fearful grimace. An entrance wound was located on the back of her head, the trajectory pointed towards the roof above. Ignoring the part of him that made him want to fall to his knees, he moved away from his best friend and towards the fire escape leading to the roof. He scaled the rusty ladder with ease, being careful to not make it creak. His hands were stained orange from the rust, and he absently wiped them on his trousers. Now was not a time for vanity.

He reached the landing and climbed up another story before he reached his destination. John closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again, all emotions flushed away. He felt the familiar rush as he began to see things for what they were. Truly see everything. His senses sharpened and his postured straightened. 

It was good to be on the job again.

0O0

Moriarty received the picture of Harry’s corpse moments before John did. He knew it was a risky move killing John’s sister, but no one could say he wasn’t a bit vengeful. If someone took something of his, if he couldn’t get it back, there was hell to pay. John had gotten his first real taste of it.

The criminal mastermind idly checked the CCTV feed to see his adversary on the roof where his assassin had been moments before. The ex-killer moved quickly. It was times like these that Jim could see who he was toying with, a lethal weapon. John’s posture was rigid, he could tell that he was absorbing everything around him and processing it at light speeds. Beautiful.

There were two ways this could go. John could be consumed by grief, become reckless. Not much of a challenge, but it served his purposes. Or, the ex-assassin could shut out his emotions and go into full blown killer mode. Risky for him, but so much more _interesting_. The Irishman rubbed his hands together excitedly, grinning maniacally. He wins either way.

0O0

In a matter of seconds, John saw everything he needed to. The assassin had been approximately one hundred and fifty pounds... male, judging by the depth and size of the boot print in the muck of the rooftop. Knowing from experience, trained killers tended to be lean, so the man he was looking for was about six feet tall. Having a rough outline of the man’s build, John deemed it safe to move towards the ledge of the roof where the gun had been presumably propped. According to the bullet wound in his sister’s head (John had to swallow what seemed to be a knife at that last thought) the gun had rested...

John moved around the ledge a bit before becoming satisfied with his estimation.

...right there. Leaning a bit closer, the ex-assassin saw where the killer’s hand had rested in order to steady the gun. He squinted against the rising winds and saw something that made his heart skip a beat.

It was a faint imprint of what seemed to be a seal from a ring. A ring that only members from the Diogenes Club possessed. 

0O0

Jim smiled as he saw his quarry freeze. So he had seen the impression the ring had made in the dirt on the ledge.

 _Very impressive Johnny,_ he thought smugly to himself. John was falling right into his carefully worked plan. By now he would realize that the assassin he had hired was an associate of Mycroft’s, which would put him into a sticky situation. Would he risk being caught by the elder Holmes in order to exact revenge, or would he back off? That’s what Moriarty loved the most about this Game. He didn’t have the slightest clue.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had chapters 8-17 completed on my other account for a long while and I forgot to post them here. This story (as well as my others) are on hiatus until I finish a Hannibal fanfiction I've been working on. Sorry for the wait/inconvenience.

Moriarty. That sick, clever bastard. The imprint of the ring on the ledge confirmed John’s thoughts that Jim knew everything about his past, even the Mycroft incident. 

_This is a test._ John thought calmly, too calmly, his jaw steadily clenching and unclenching. _If he wants to see how much nerve I have, then he will._ The trained killed turned around and scanned his surroundings. Such a monumental Game would not be played without Jim watching, he knew. There had to be surveillance somewhere...

Out of the corner of his eye, John caught a glimpse of a camera pointed his way that normally would have been angled towards the fancy jewelry shop down the street. Scowling, he flipped the camera off before picking up a stone and lobbing it. The rock hit the camera right on the lens, shattering the glass. 

_If it’s war he wants, it’s war he’ll get. I’ll make him regret the day he ever messed with John Watson._

~O~

Moriarty shook his head at John’s antics, as if he were a small rambunctious child.

“Very rash of you Johnny.” he spoke aloud, as if the man was standing next to him, not miles away. “You should know that I’m not the only one who uses the CCTV for his own purposes.” With another sickening smile, the criminal mastermind flicked off the monitor that was now displaying static and headed out of the room. He had a plane to catch. Someone had screwed up in Italy, _again_. 

~O~

If Mycroft were not a gentleman, he would have cursed out loud. Even so, he was fighting the urge to let a few choice words escape. He leaned back in his leather chair, the ancient legs creaking ominously. The monitor in front of him displayed static, Watson’s latest attempt to taunt him. He had flipped the camera off, and then shattered the lens. If the elder Holmes had any doubt before, he did not have any now. John Watson was definitely the assassin who had tried to kill him so long ago. Prisoner 0924.

“Anthea,” he said shortly. His no nonsense PA walked into his office, heels clicking professionally against the floor. 

“Yes sir,” she intoned without any inflection. Mycroft brought a hand up to his forehead and rubbed it, attempting to assuage the headache he knew was coming. Anthea did not say anything, patiently waiting for her boss reveal what he wanted. After a few moments, he did.

“I need a brandy,” he said tiredly. She nodded her head, and left the room. 

Mycroft considered his options. He could easily take the nuisance out, with no fuss. He could fabricate an accident quite easily, he certainly had the resources to do so. But there was one person standing in the way of that. His brother, who would see through anything he tried to tell him. It seems as if Sherlock had... befriended this pest, making it impossible to dispose of him without a... mess.

Anthea returned with brandy, and the powerful man took it gratefully. He nodded in thanks to his secretary, who left the room with a measured pace. He swirled the alcohol in the glass, not paying attention to the clinking the ice made against the glass. He sipped it thoughtfully, still thinking. Always thinking. 

He began formulating a plan. Sherlock, ignorant of John’s past, had noticed his flatmate's deteriorating exterior. Little did he know it was the true John coming out, not just some deranged mental instability. Well, maybe a bit of both. If he could convince Sherlock that John had become dangerous, he could put the man away for good. Granted, it wasn’t as clean and final as he wanted, but he had been told by his agents that the mental facility was hell on earth for those still sane. Good enough. Now he just had to wait for John to dig his own grave. He smiled grimly and sipped his expensive drink. 

Cheers.

~O~

John looked at his phone, irritated as it buzzed in his pocket for the sixth time in thirty minutes. It was Sherlock.

_John, there’s a case. Come back to Baker Street immediately -SH_

_John, I need you -SH_

_Meet me at Saint Barts -SH_

_Where are you -SH_

_You’re late -SH_

_Are you okay? -SH_

Rolling his eyes, John texted a quick, non committal response.

_Sherlock, im fine just went to Lindas place. do the case yourself_

He hoped his overly observant friend bought the lie. It hurt him, surprisingly, to lie to Sherlock, even in such a small way. He reflected that maybe he was going soft. But a quick flashback of being shackled by his wrists and hanging from the ceiling by Moriarty a few months ago, refusing to scream dissipated the notion. He was most definitely not going “soft”. 

He quickly shut off his phone so he wouldn’t be distracted, and checked himself to make sure he had everything he needed. He had gone back to Harry’s apartment, one of the many places he hid his old equipment and suited up. He took two guns, both Sigs, three knives (gifts from Harry four years ago, the thought sent a quick wave of nausea through him), as well as his old combat boots that he used to wear to his “personal” jobs. This was one of them. Thumbing the safety off his gun, he forced himself to think of it as any other job. Everyone knew vengeance made sloppy work. He exhaled slowly, letting any tension leave him as he entered his destination. The Diogenes Club.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had chapters 8-17 completed on my other account for a long while and I forgot to post them here. This story (as well as my others) are on hiatus until I finish a Hannibal fanfiction I've been working on. Sorry for the wait/inconvenience.

_Thumbing the safety off his gun, he forced himself to think of it as any other job. Everyone knew vengeance made sloppy work. He exhaled slowly, letting any tension leave him as he entered his destination. The Diogenes Club._

Nothing had changed since the last time he had been in there three years ago. There were still snobby, imperious men sitting on their thrones of tradition and status, wielding their silence like a sword and their newspapers like a shield. Tea sat, cooling and stagnant, at the side of every occupant of the room along with a small spoon and a bell. Nobody even looked up when he barged in, and John was hit with a strong jolt of deja vous. Adrenaline flooded his system, familiar and deadly, and everything sharpened. His pores opened, muscles tensed, and senses focused. 

The assassin’s eyes roved over all the occupants in a matter of seconds, eliminating them from his list one by one. Too short, too fat, too old, too petty. None of them matched the rough description he had gleaned from the crime scene earlier. But there was still two other rooms full of diplomats to go. Taking advantage of the lack of interest in him, he moved silently down the still corridor to the next room. 

He had only been in the room for a moment when he found the man he was looking for. The man, in his late twenties, towered over an older gentleman who was reading avidly. Unlike his gray haired counterpart, this man was tall, with thick, unruly brown hair and sinewy muscles hidden cleverly by a button down shirt. Before he made any rash decisions, John honed in on the suspected murderer. Everything matched: height, weight, muscle mass, build, and hand size. The out of place brunette was posing as a diplomat’s assistant, jotting down notes and fiddling with the ring on his hand nervously. But it was all an act. John knew that this was his guy.

0O0

Jim Moriarty had just arrived in Rome forty minutes ago when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He was already irritated from the two and a half hour flight from London (it wasn’t commonly known, but the criminal mastermind wasn’t too fond of flying) and was currently in an unmarked car on its way to a meeting dealing with an incompetent hitman that some bloody putz had hired. The man had screwed up a job, ended up getting caught, and had spilled his guts to the target about his employer. It wasn’t even close to touching Moriarty (nobody gets to me), but the carelessness couldn’t go unpunished. He hated clean up.

So yes, the Irishman was a little irritated. Some of that irritation may have bled through when he answered the phone.

“What?” he hissed, not hiding his displeasure. The voice on the other end was unfazed.

“I was told to contact you when John Watson entered the Diogenes Club,” the man said neutrally. If he was afraid, he was hiding it well. It was far more likely that he just didn’t know who he was talking to.

“I hope you’re not mistaken... for your sake.” Moriarty spat into the phone before hanging up. He impatiently brought out his laptop and tapped into the feeds at the Diogenes Club. The events played out before him like a fairy tale, and he watched with growing interest. 

John stood in the middle of the Halborough Wing, looking extremely out of place next to all of the gentlemen in the room. His stony gaze was locked onto another misfit, one Moriarty himself had planted into the Club. Sigmund, his hired gun, posing as the secretary to the Swedish Diplomat. The beauty of it was everyone believed the lie, even Mycroft himself. They all thought this man was Oxford educated, and ready for politics. No doubt the Iceman thought that he could get an early influence on the young blood and control his rise to power. How wrong he was. This man was a killer, through and through. Just like John. But infinitely less complicated than the object of his obsession. 

A slow grin split on the psychopath’s face as John’s jaw set, eyes narrowed, and nostrils flared. The man’s arm flew so quickly to his belt that the cameras had trouble picking up the motion, and in a flash a knife had buried itself in Sigmund’s throat, spraying blood all over the gentleman he was “working for”. Jim giggled with delight at the gory scene before him. John seemed unsure of what to do. Not because of guilt, Moriarty deduced, but because the knife had sentimental value. A gift from his recently deceased sister? Moriarty sneered. How pathetic.

0O0

Mycroft was enjoying an afternoon tea when he got the memo. John Watson had entered the Diogenes Club. The place that was supposed to be a safe haven to all government officials of every country. This was the break he had been waiting for, the chance to lock John away for good, but he wished it could have come at less of a personal cost to him. It would take months to smooth over the outrage that would spawn from a citizen being allowed into such a guarded area. But no matter. He brought out his phone and dialled a number he knew very well but rarely used.

0O0

Sherlock leaned over the body, inspecting it for any clues he could use. Nothing jumped out at him immediately, but that may be because of the shocking amount of blood on the corpse.

The man, a middle aged librarian from the looks of it (paper cuts on hands, fat and muscle masses indicates sedentary lifestyle, indents on nose from glasses being worn constantly... dusty books not conducive to contacts) had a large gash in the throat, which had obviously killed him. But even so... something was wrong with this picture.

“John, tell me, what do you see here that is wrong?” 

No answer.

“John!” Sherlock said impatiently.

“Sherlock,” A voice answered. Not John. Not relevant.

“Last time I checked, Inspector, you were not John,” Sherlock said snidely as he looked up. The Detective Inspector looked a bit irritated but didn’t respond to the bait. 

“John isn’t here. He hasn’t been here this whole time.” 

Sherlock blinked. This was highly irregular. He just assumed that John would come in response to his texts... like he used to. 

Slightly embarrassed at the lingering hurt he was feeling, the consulting detective turned away from the Inspector and looked back at the body without answering. Something was off... something.

It clicked.

“There’s too much blood here,” Sherlock mused under his breath.

“Come again?” Lestrade asked, leaning into Sherlock’s personal space.

“Too. Much. Blood.” Sherlock said again, impatient. Everything was coming together. “There’s too much blood here, but why. Why? Because there was something to hide. A fingerprint, a piece of DNA, doesn’t matter. Someone used a bag of blood to wash away evidence. But who? Someone who has access easily,” Sherlock whipped out his phone, ignoring the baffled looks of his colleagues. “No forced entry into blood banks in the past forty eight hours, so it was someone who had ready access. A patient? No. That person would need the blood, and wouldn’t think of using it for something so trivial as a cover up. Then who? A doctor. Cut across throat is neat, practiced. Incision is made by a left handed person, note how it is deeper on one side than the other. I’d say it was someone five in a half... not five feet eight inches tall, male. So, the suspect is a male doctor, left handed, five foot eight, working in a hospital with a ready amount of blood. Person works with blood a lot, not noted if he enters the room to grab some. So, he probably works on either floor four, five or six.”

“Well that’s great, Freak,” Anderson sneered, “but what good is that for us?”

“Anderson, your incompetence astounds me. This man has been dead for about four hours. Lunch break for these floors are thirty minutes, about four hours ago. The doctor who commited this crime wouldn’t have a lot of time to get it done. In fact, I’d say he was in a bit of a pinch. So, the deed is done, but he’s left with the blood bag. He can’t walk back into work with an empty blood bag, too many questions. He doesn’t have time to properly dispose of it. So, it has to be close by, perhaps in the trash. Once you find it...”

“... We get prints or a label with information on who checked the bag out.” Lestrade finished with excitement. Sherlock huffed but nodded. “Everybody! Check the perimeter! We are looking for a blood bag!” Lestrade shouted, walking away from Sherlock. The consulting detective smirked, before frowning as his phone rang. Looking at the display, he noticed it was his brother. Rolling his eyes, he answered.

“Mycroft,” he drawled.

“Sherlock,” the voice answered, sounding a little strained.

“What brother, I’m on a case,” Sherlock sniffed.

“We have a situation... it’s John. He looks as though he is suffering from a breakdown. He’s at the Diogenes right now, and he’s armed.”

“I’ll be right there,” Sherlock replied in a clipped tone before hanging up. With a growing sense of dread he didn’t quite understand, he ran out of the crime scene and hailed a cab.

0O0

John locked eyes with his quarry, blood boiling as the man smirked at him. With barely a conscious thought, John went through the practiced motion of throwing his knife at the killer’s throat. The brunette gurgled a bit as the knife hit its mark, spraying blood everywhere. John didn’t flinch as a drop landed on his cheek.

The man wasn’t deserving of the knife that had killed him.

Harry’s knife. 

John hesitated, looking around at the shocked gentlemen that gawked at him. The diplomat that had been in the company of the dead gunman was out cold, he had fainted when his trusted secretary died right next to him. The foolish man probably thought that it was an attempt on his own life. 

Finally, John broke out of his stupor, resolving to leave the knife behind. He had to run, he didn’t have time to grab it. He was about to turn and sprint out the door, a dozen safe places that he had set up a decade ago running through his head, when he heard something that made him freeze.

“John?” a faint, shocked voice came from the direction he was running to. 

Sherlock.

How had he gotten there?

“Out of my way,” John growled, ignoring the guilt that stabbed at him for lying to Sherlock. For treating his best friend that way.

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” another voice said, victory laden in his voice.

Shit. Mycroft.

“I’m sorry John,” the umbrella carrying man said with faux sincerity as he pushed past his frozen younger brother. “But you are suffering from a mental breakdown. You have just killed a man,” he stated as if John didn't know what he had done. But John saw right through the act. He saw the vindictive malice practically oozing from the man. “It’s okay now John,” he said softly. John tensed as two burly men grabbed his arms. “We’re going to place you under the care of an institution that... specializes in people with conditions like yours,” Mycroft said, voice practically dripping with fake sincerity.

The adrenaline had faded, and was replaced by panic and fear. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have allowed his anger to get the better of him? 

John opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the elder Holmes.

“Now now, don’t speak. Everything will be fine. I won’t even press charges.” The men dragged John closed to Mycroft, who leaned into the ex-assassin and whispered so no one else could hear. “I’ve got you now 0924. And this time, you’re not getting away.” Mycroft smirked at John’s terrified look. 

Abruptly, John realized he lost. This was Moriarty’s plan from the start, and he had been played so easily. He was going to be locked away by Mycroft, in an institution, just like the psychopath had planned.

_“If you’re still not in a mental asylum in three months, I will leave you and Sherlock alone for good. You’ll never hear from me again. But if I win, and Sherlock thinks you’re crazy, you’re mine John Watson. All Lestrade’s forces and all Mycroft’s men will never be able to find you again.”_


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had chapters 8-17 completed on my other account for a long while and I forgot to post them here. This story (as well as my others) are on hiatus until I finish a Hannibal fanfiction I've been working on. Sorry for the wait/inconvenience.

“I want to visit him.”

“Sherlock...”

“Why won’t you let me see him _brother_?” Sherlock spat the last word like a curse. Mycroft didn’t even look fazed. 

“He’s in the best institution money can pay for,” Mycroft evaded.

“That wasn’t my question.”

Mycroft sighed.

“He’s made a request not to see you,” he lied smoothly. “Not until he’s rehabilitated.”

_As if I would ever let him become rehabilitated._

There was a flash of defiance in Sherlock’s eyes; he saw through the lie. But the spark died away as quickly as it came, leaving a cold, calculating blue gaze.

“What is his diagnosis.” Sherlock wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at John’s empty chair. Mycroft knew there was only so much information he could deny his brother before he became suspicious. He gave Sherlock the charts without a word. The consulting detective’s eyes roved the pages, picking up relevant information and dismissing the rest.

“Paranoid delusional?” he scoffed.

“Sherlock, you have to understand. John thinks Moriarty is alive, and hunting him at every turn. He _killed_ an innocent man because he thought he was a spy. He sees that bastard at every turn... hallucinations and this level of paranoia have been deemed by the medical board as maladjusted, unjustified, deviant, and atypical.”

“I don’t need a lesson in psychology,” Sherlock snapped.

“The resident therapist seems to think that John’s PTSD has flared to astronomical levels,” the elder Holmes continued, ignoring his brother, “resulting in a psychotic break that caused this onset of paranoia and delusions. Apparently he is so worked up that the medication has had no effect on him. His body is working under constant strain to burn off any antipsychotic or sedatives administered.” 

All of these things, of course, were true. It was truly a feat of biology for the assassin’s body to resist the drugs so strongly. He had no idea how he was doing it, and it made him nervous to have a mostly lucid and raging, possibly psychotic John Watson on his trail, locked up or not. Mycroft learned from their first encounter that locks could not hold the man for long.

“Phobia of needles?” Sherlock mused, continuing to scrutinize the report. “He worked at the A&E for years, where did this come from?” He looked up to his brother when there was no answer forthcoming, seeking acknowledgement. Mycroft resisted the urge to smirk. That one was from him.

“Psychosis does terrible things to a man,” Mycroft spoke softly, insinuating pity. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and frowned. He tossed John’s charts onto the floor carelessly and steepled his fingers under his chin.

“Something is off,” Sherlock declared, scowling. “There is insufficient data,” he glared accusingly at the stack of papers on the ground.

“The human psyche goes beyond simple data,” Mycroft countered, but he thought something was off too, though for an entirely different reason. It didn’t make sense that John would keep pretending that he thought Moriarty was alive. There was no benefit to it, nothing to be gained. That meant that he actually thought the criminal was walking the streets, stalking him... which meant the man was actually insane. Didn’t it?

“John has an unfailing moral compass,” Sherlock said, almost proudly. “He would never kill a man for no reason.”

 _Maybe the John you knew,_ Mycroft pointedly didn’t say. Instead he just shook his head sympathetically. 

“That’s the point Sherlock,” the British government said slowly, “he thought he was killing a man for a good reason. He thought the man worked for Moriarty.”

Sherlock sat in silence for a while before speaking, gaze unfocused as if his mind were somewhere else.

“I know what it is like to think Moriarty is watching your every move,” he said, in an uncharacteristic show of empathy. “It is enough to drive any man mad.” With that, the younger man got up from the chair he was sitting in and went into his room, slamming the door behind him.

His younger brother certainly had a penchant for dramatics. 

And that was precisely why he removed the most shocking of the diagnoses from the chart he had given Sherlock. Acutely self destructive. It rubbed Mycroft the wrong way to think that John Watson was the type of person to vent his anxiety or anger in such a manner, yet the scars were there to prove it. They were all less than three years old, after Sherlock had ‘died’. Perhaps the assassin truly did care for his brother.

It was time to visit John Watson.

...

He needed a drink.

0O0

Far abroad, in Italy, a certain criminal mastermind’s phone rang, and was answered.

Information was relayed.

Moriarty laughed.

Today was his lucky day.

0O0

“He hasn’t eaten anything in the three days he’s been here,” an unimportant doctor said as he looked down at his clipboard. He was escorting a ridiculously expensively clad man with an umbrella to John Watson’s room. “He drinks the water we give him, but the medication shows no effect. He also has little weakness in the face of his malnutrition. His sleep cycle is unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” the doctor prattled, obviously enraptured in the enigma that was John Watson.

It was nothing Mycroft hadn’t already heard. Therefore, it was irrelevant. He had tuned the man out for the past minute or so, lost in his own thoughts. He almost didn’t notice when they finally stopped in front of a metal door that was labeled 214 in a shiny plaque. It looked as though the workers spent more time on the plaques than the patients. Mycroft didn’t comment.

“Holler if you need anything,” the man said, opening the door and practically shoving Mycroft in before shutting it again. 

The elder Holmes took quick inventory of the room. There wasn’t much to see: white washed walls, industrial carpeting, a small door to the left leading to a bathroom, a bed bolted to the floor, and a window much too small to escape from. Apparently they had removed much of the room’s original contents after John had attempted to escape using a mechanism built with bedsprings and a table leg. 

Speaking of John.

The man was handcuffed to the bed, but judging by his wrists, not for long. Probably just for the duration of his visit. The assassin was pointedly not looking at Mycroft, instead gazing at the door to the bathroom. His eye twitched slightly whenever Mycroft moved. The British government had to fight down a smile.

“John Watson,” he said smugly, “oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

“Piss off,” the man said hoarsely back, still not looking at him. 

“You have no idea the satisfaction this gives me.” 

“You’re a wanker,” John shot back, jaw clenching and shoulders flexing.

“I’m here for answers.”

“You’re not going to get any,” John sneered, twitching again, this time his arm.

“Moriarty,” Mycroft said demurely. 

“What about him?”

“Precisely. What is his significance.”

“He’s going to bust me out,” John said snidely, but there was something embedded in his voice that made Mycroft uncomfortable. It sounded like a mixture of fear, pain, and hatred. 

“Oh?”

“Oh yes,” John laughed humorlessly, looking at Mycroft for the first time. His eyes were hollow. “This was always his plan. He played me. And you,” he raised his eyebrows. “And now I’m going to pay.” 

“Moriarty is dead.” Mycroft waited for an angry, psychotic outburst. None came.

“It was never personal,” John changed the subject abruptly, throwing Mycroft off.

“What?”

“I was hired to destroy your career. It was never about you, it was about the client.”

Oh. So that’s where this was going.

“I never saw his face...” John mused, eyes distant. “But he _hated_ you. More than I hate you. Rival British politician, if I remember correctly. He wanted you gone. And I payed the price for that too. Funny how things work out that way.”

“It was a standard interrogation,” Mycroft said stiffly. 

“The needles? The drugs? The psychological torture?” It was said matter of fact, and it made Mycroft shiver.

“No,” he assented. “I guess it wasn’t.”

“I guess it wasn’t,” John parroted. He turned away, looking like a man who knew the date on his own tombstone. 

“You were a special case. We had never seen someone so highly trained, as intelligent as you. We had to make sure...”

“Make sure there wasn’t any more of me, yes, I get it. But I _told_ you. It’s only me. I trained myself.”

“And we were to believe you?”

“I suppose not.”

A pause.

“John... were you truly friends with my brother?” There it was. The question that had been nagging at him for months now.

...

“Yes, I really was. Even if he was kin to the man who shattered my world apart. The psychosomatic limp... that was real you know. It wasn’t fake. You did that. Your brother took it away. It’s strange how things like that happen.”

“Yes... it’s strange.” 

John looked up at Mycroft, who was no longer paying attention.

“I think it’s time for you to go.” Mycroft looked down at the keen man sitting below him, and blinked slowly. “You should never visit criminally insane people when you’re drunk.” The elder Holmes blinked. He was drunk, but he held his liquor very well. It was a Holmes’ family trait. So how did John know that...

There was a crack as John broke his thumb, and suddenly he was free from his handcuffs. He sprang up from the bed and shoved Mycroft into a wall, leaning close enough to whisper in his ear. His breath tickled Mycroft’s neck uncomfortably. 

“Moriarty is coming for me, soon. You need to get out, or he will kill you.” John stepped back, and then curled his hand into a fist and slugged the dazed Holmes across the face. “The security will be here soon to escort you out... for your own safety,” he curled his lip at that. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

The door opened with a loud clang, and several men came in to detain John, who at this point wasn’t even struggling. Mycroft, still a bit confused and shaken by the whole visit, was escorted out efficiently by a couple of staff. 

“Please don’t sue us, Mr. Holmes,” a balding gentleman in a suit practically sobbed. “Our department can’t afford any-” 

Mycroft held up a hand to cut the man off.

“On the contrary. I’m donating 50,000 pounds to this facility. Providing that the footage of anything said or done in that cell never gets into public hands. In fact, destroy it immediately.” 

The balding man nodded frantically and began barking orders to subordinates.

0O0

Two hours later, a nurse that was scheduled to give John Watson his food and water was found dead in his cell. The words, ‘Dear me, Mr. Holmes, dear me’ were written across the walls in blood.

One hour later, the blood was confirmed to belong to Dr. John Watson.

Mycroft knew of only one person who had ever said those words.

Moriarty.

God fucking damn it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had chapters 8-17 completed on my other account for a long while and I forgot to post them here. This story (as well as my others) are on hiatus until I finish a Hannibal fanfiction I've been working on. Sorry for the wait/inconvenience.

John awoke to a sparse, well lit room much like the one he had been residing in for the past few days. In fact, whoever placed him there went through great pains to make it look exactly like the mental hospital. But, to someone like John, it was quite obvious he had been moved.

For one, the security camera that was in his room was two inches off from where it was in his previous residence... a small but careless mistake made by his captors. Another hint was that someone tried too hard to mimic the tell tale smell of disinfectant. It pervaded his olfactory system, overpowered his thoughts and gave him a headache. Below that preliminary smell was one that his mystery captors had tried to hide, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and gunpowder. And lastly-

Bloody Hell.

-his ribs hurt like a bitch.

_Moriarty leered at him as he pinned him to the wall, surprisingly strong. The nurse was sprawled a few feet away, a precise hit to the medulla ending his life instantly._

_“Hold still Johnny,” the psychopath had whispered in a sick parody of a good man, “this will only hurt for a moment.”_

_Butcher’s Knife._

_Pain._

John groaned and gently lifted his shirt to find a long but relatively shallow gash along the bottom of his ribs. The knife had scraped the bone, but no serious damage had been caused. Just a lot of pain. It was wrapped in a rudimentary bandage to slow the bleeding, but if wouldn’t be enough to stave off infection in the long run. Gingerly, he undid the hastily done bandage and assessed the damage.

The bleeding was sluggish, but not enough for it to have been made too long ago. As John became more aware, his brain started to pick up on the screaming nerves with more urgency. The assassin’s brain went into overdrive.

Injured. Hurt. Unknown Location. 

Survive.

His thumb was still broken from his confrontation with Mycroft, but in the face of his deadly focus it seemed like nothing more than a dull throb. He deftly got up from his bed and moved towards the bathroom, ignoring his aching chest wound. He had survived worse. 

All of the toiletries provided at the mental hospital had been removed, even the shower stall. The only things left were a small sink and a toilet. But it wasn’t these differences that drew John’s attention. On the sink, carefully placed, was a bottle of Craig and a needle and thread. The intentions were clear. 

0O0

Wild hair. Bright eyes. 

That was what Mycroft saw in his brother. He looked high, but he knew Sherlock well enough to know that he would never go down that path again. Nevertheless, it was slightly concerning to see his brother in such a manic state.

“What do you mean he was _taken by Moriarty_ ,” Sherlock growled, feral. 

“It seems that we were mistaken,” Mycroft said, smoothing his suit of nonexistent wrinkles. Trying to play off the fact that he is freaked the fuck out as well.

“You. _You_ were mistaken.” Sherlock said angrily. 

Now, Mycroft would take some of the blame for this mess, but not all of it. 

“Need I remind you that you had one job Sherlock, and that was to dismantle Moriarty’s web? Can’t have done a very good job if you didn’t even know that the spider himself was still alive.”

“You’re the ‘British Government’-”

“I occupy a minor position,” Mycroft tried to intercede, but Sherlock was having none of it.

“What were you doing all that time I was away? Eating cake?” his brother sneered. Mycroft felt that was a bit of a low blow. He replied in kind.

“I was keeping an eye on your best and _only_ friend!”

That seemed to enrage Sherlock more. Mycroft briefly fantasized that Sherlock would soon start foaming at the mouth if this conversation continued down its current path.

“You were supposed to keep John _safe_!”

“That is hardly the point! If Moriarty was dead, John would be safe!”

“You promised John was okay! You said he was doing fine, he had moved on with his life!”

“I couldn’t risk telling you the truth and have you come back and cock everything up!” Mycroft was past formalities, sinking to vulgarities to get his point across. 

“John is my friend! He means everything to me! I can’t- I can’t lose him, not again! I just- can’t.”

Sherlock stopped talking to catch his breath. The elder Holmes belatedly realized that his brother was hyperventilating. He hadn’t had a panic attack since he was seven.

0O0

John sat on his bed, steeling himself for the task ahead. It was not that difficult of a job to do, but it wouldn’t be pleasant. Moriarty was counting on it. Without proper equipment, even with the alcohol, the stitches would eventually become infected. It would be a weak point that Jim would count on being able to exploit. Unfortunately, it was a necessary evil that the assassin would have to endure. 

He took a slow swig of the Craig before breathing out of his nose harshly. Here goes nothing. 

With the precision of a surgeon, John poured the bourbon into his wound, not even wincing at the sting of the contact. Now wasn’t the time to indulge in his body’s natural responses. Especially when-

“You probably get off on this, you bastard,” John said with a bit more of a wheeze than he would have liked. 

Now for the hard part.

Threading the poor quality, slightly frayed thread into the dull needle, John fell back onto his oldest coping mechanism. 

“3.1415926...”

The needle pierced his tender skin, and John inhaled a little too sharply. 

“5358979323846264338327950288...” 

The thread tugged his wound horribly, and John belatedly hoped that Moriarty hadn’t tampered with it in any way. The last thing he wanted is some poison or pathogen to enter his blood stream through some damn string.

“419716939937510582097494459230...”

Despite the inefficiency of his work, the gash was closing and the bleeding was slowing.

“7816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093...”

John tied off the string and poured a little more alcohol on the crude stitches for good measure.

“Done,” he breathed to himself, helping himself to some more Craig. He was rather partial to the brand, after all.

“It’s funny,” a voice drawled from the doorway. “I didn’t take you for the type of person to rattle off digits of pi when under stress.” 

John almost choked on a mouthful of alcohol. 

“Moriarty. How long have you been there, you sick fuck?”

Besides a slight narrowing of his eyes, the Irishman didn’t acknowledge his impudence. 

“Put your shirt back on Johnny. It’s show time.”

0O0

Sherlock was combing over the surveillance from outside of John’s room again, for the hundredth time. Mycroft was sitting a ways away from his brother, seemingly deep in thought. They hadn’t spoken a word since their argument, everything was understood silently. 

_Security guard, desperate, antsy. Posted outside of John’s room by Mycroft’s request. He’s a switch. He’s working for the enemy._

John isn’t crazy. 

_Time passes. A man enters frame briefly. Face hidden by shadow. Guard lets him pass._

Moriarty is alive. 

_Guard leaves. Goes out through fire escape, sweating excessively. He is afraid._

John isn’t crazy, but he isn’t quite sane either. 

_A man, nurse, three children and a cat, enters John’s room. Recent divorce._

John killed a man, with no hesitation.

_Time passes. Moriarty carries John out of room, bridal style. John is bleeding. John is hurt._

How many other men had John killed in Sherlock’s absence?

_Moriarty looks at camera, reveals his face. Taunting._

What wasn’t Mycroft telling him?

_Moriarty grins, leaves. Leaves with John._

Who is John Watson?

…

_Tape ends._

No new information.

_Repeat._

 

0O0

_Knock._

_Knock, Knock._

Sherlock makes no move to get the door. With a sigh, Mycroft gets up from his thinking spot, umbrella in hand. He travels down the stairs, to the door. When he opens it, nobody is there.

That’s not to say that nothing is there, however. 

Gingerly, Mycroft picks up a Macbook from the stoop and examines it closely.

The British Government blanches, and looks up and down the street. Nobody seems to be there. He looks back down at the offending apple logo, where the incriminating ‘IOU’ is scrawled in red marker.

He wants to smash it on the ground, and crush it under his heel. John Watson isn’t worth saving. He isn’t worth the pain. He should leave the two killers to themselves and let them eat each other alive. 

Instead, he slowly travels back up the stairs, computer still in his hands. 

“Sherlock?” No answer. “Package from Moriarty.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had chapters 8-17 completed on my other account for a long while and I forgot to post them here. This story (as well as my others) are on hiatus until I finish a Hannibal fanfiction I've been working on. Sorry for the wait/inconvenience.

Sherlock grabbed the laptop from his brother impatiently, looking it over and pausing at the incriminating ‘IOU’ on the lid. It was definitely from Moriarty. Sherlock felt his stomach drop. Even though he had seen Moriarty abduct John on surveillance, this was almost worse. Knowing that Moriarty was doing this to get to him, that he was ready to hurt John in order to hurt him. That all of his sacrifice had been for naught, that the bastard was still alive. All those wasted years, the cigarettes, the deaths, the near relapses, it had been for nothing. He still couldn’t protect John.

“Are you going to open it brother?” Mycroft asked with a twinge of impatience. This whole thing was a nightmare. If Moriarty somehow got John to swing to his side, all would be lost. 

John knew the Holmes brothers intimately. Also, he was as smart, as clever, and as resourceful as all of them. What made it worse is that John had a lethal unpredictable streak in him, one that could cost him time, money, or even his life. He had overestimated his brother, and underestimated John and Moriarty. It was a mistake he hoped he would never make again.

Sherlock slowly opened the lid of the Macbook, which hummed slightly as it started up. It was on the desktop in mere moments, which, strangely enough, had a generic background. Sherlock would have expected Moriarty to have put something upsetting or symbolic, but a picture of a leaf with a ladybug on it stared back at him mockingly. Mycroft looked over his brother’s shoulder, and for once his rebellious sibling didn’t snap at him. He was too focused on the mundane screen to argue with his older brother. Sherlock moved the mouse over to the internet icon, but before he could click it, a live feed popped up onto the screen, obscuring the rest of the desktop. Moriarty’s leering face was grinning at him, laughter and madness in his eyes and murder in his smile. Sherlock shivered a little, hoping that no one noticed. If they did, they said nothing.

This man was a far cry to what they had faced at the pool all those years ago. He had been terrifying then too, but now he seemed as though he had no boundaries, that he would cross any line necessary to achieve his goal. He was just the soulless shell of what once was a brilliant man, driven to the precipice of insanity by some unknown pursuer. He eyes were dark and fevered, his cheeks sunken in slightly. Other than that, he seemed unharmed and relatively healthy. As strong as ever. Sherlock’s stomach turned at the thought.

“Sherlock, Mycroft, what a pleasant surprise!” he beamed at them, a crooked smile on his face. “I see you got my package, that’s good,” he noted with a small nod.

“Where’s John,” Sherlock intoned forcefully. “I want proof that he’s alive.”

“Oh he’s alive, Sherly. He’s actually quite hard to kill. Like a cockroach,” his face twisted into a scowl. He turned towards a space that was off camera. “Johnny! Say hello to the Holmes brothers!”

“Sherlock! Turn this off right now! Turn it oomph-fuck,” John pleaded from somewhere off to the side, only to get interrupted by what Sherlock deduced to be a sock to the jaw. He smiled slightly. A cursing John was a relatively unharmed John.

Mycroft leaned down the Sherlock’s ear, whispering so the webcam wouldn’t pick up the words. 

“I have men trying to triangulate their position as we speak,” he said in a voice that betrayed no emotion. 

“Oh don’t bother Mister Holmes,” Moriarty scoffed at him. “I know you have your cronies looking for me, but I assure you, my people are very good at what they do,” he smirked. Sherlock closed his eyes, and steeled himself for what he was about to say. Mycroft tensed beside him, as if sensing that Sherlock was about to do something stupid.

“Let him go, Jim,” Sherlock said softly. The consulting criminal looked at him curiously, a small smile gracing his features. “It’s me you want. John is nothing but a pawn.” The Irishman surprised him by laughing. Sherlock looked back at what he had said, trying to find the joke.

“Silly Sherlock, you’ve been out of the picture for ages,” the man drawled, and Sherlock paled dramatically in his confusion. “You disappoint me, I _thought_ you were _special_ but it turns out you’re just another man off the street,” Moriarty snarled in a terrifying mood swing. 

“What- what do you mean?”

“I beat you back at the pool Sherlock. I won. I could have killed you at the drop of a hat. I had snipers, you _idiot_. Do you really think that you could have blown us up before my snipers could have killed you? You’re survival is nothing but a whim of mine. I don’t care about you. I’m interested in the lap pet who turned out to be a wolf. But you’d know that first hand, wouldn’t you Mycroft?” he purred at the elder Holmes, who had the decency to look guilty. 

“Mycroft? What’s going on?” Sherlock asked tersely, feeling left out of some cosmic joke. 

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough Sherly,” Moriarty grinned at the camera. “Because no matter how loathsome and boring I find you, you’re still important to little Johnny. So we’ll play a game.”

Sherlock and Mycroft, the two most formidable minds in England, stood in silent vigil as they waited for a madman’s verdict. 

“I’ve rigged a building full of explosives,” Moriarty said with glee. “No one knows where they are but me. And I won’t tell you where unless you cooperate.”

“Fine,” Mycroft bit out stiffly. This was a dig at him. He was the one who cared about this sort of thing, not Sherlock. He didn’t like the thought of going along with a criminal’s whims, but at this point, he saw no alternative. His men had failed to find the source of the signal, and he had an unstable man with a trigger in his arsenal keeping an unstable prisoner who was also a murderer. “What are the terms.” Moriarty bit his lip in thought mockingly, before his face lit up. He looked like a kid at a candy store, which was a disturbing look on him. 

“I’m going to hook Johnny up to some electrodes and zap him until he screams. I want your guess on how long it will take for him to start screaming,” the man said, rubbing his hands together. “Johnny won’t know the number, of course. If he lasts longer, he gets some water. If he doesn’t well, looses his trigger fingers. If you guess something too outlandish to try and rig the results, I’ll blow up the building.” Sherlock looked like he was trying to keep from throwing up, but Mycroft considered the number carefully. He had used this method on Watson in the past, but not for an extended period. It was only for roughly an hour, and it failed to draw any response from the man. 

“Four hours,” Mycroft spoke evenly, and Sherlock looked up at him, his face murderous. 

“Four hours! What are you thinking?” Sherlock roared. “There’s no way John could last that long!” Mycroft sighed, regretting not telling Sherlock the truth about John when he found out. 

“Now’s not the time to explain,” Mycroft muttered, staring at the screen of the laptop as it went dark. 

“Damn!” Sherlock growled, frustrated. “He shut down the link! What are we supposed to do now?” Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, tugging at it harshly. He didn’t register the pain. 

Mycroft thought he wouldn’t care if John got tortured by Moriarty, but his stomach roiled at the prospect. The man _had_ tried to retire, after all, it was Moriarty who drove him to the brink. The John Watson he met a few years prior, before he was aware that he was an assassin from his past, seemed like a pleasant man, full of morals and patience. Mycroft wondered how much of that had been a lie, or if any of it had. It was only when Mycroft and Moriarty started poking at him did he start to lose his marbles. 

What had he done?

“We wait,” Mycroft said calmly, trying to mask the guilt he was beginning to feel. 

A notification popped up on the computer screen. 

_See you in four hours ;)_

0O0

Four hours later, there was a knock at the door. Sherlock and Mycroft hadn’t spoken since Moriarty had shut down the link. Mycroft stood to go answer the door, Sherlock following him like a shadow. 

When they opened the door, the only this there was a small box and a sticky note. The note had an address on it, presumably of where the bomb was. Mycroft set the box down, unopened, and took out his mobile. Sherlock picked up the box, opening it with trepidation. He began to shake as he surveyed the contents of the box.

A thumb, a forefinger, and a middle finger of a right hand.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had chapters 8-17 completed on my other account for a long while and I forgot to post them here. This story (as well as my others) are on hiatus until I finish a Hannibal fanfiction I've been working on. Sorry for the wait/inconvenience.

It is unfamiliar. It is familiar. It is a feeling that makes itself known in the throbbing of John’s brain. The thready racing of his heart. The cramping of his legs. The ache in his soul, or what remains of it.

Anguish. 

Because that’s what he feels. There’s defiance. There’s anger, hatred, and a soul crushing sadness he had ignored until now. But now he’s alone, alone in a room and waiting for Moriarty to come in and- well, he knows how this will end. Screaming, angry shouts between two broken men. Blood. It will be his blood, he reasons, because he is the one strapped to the chair. That is how the world works. And he feels anguish.

He misses Harry. He can’t quite shake the sight of her, her lively animated body still on the ground. She was never still, not even in sleep. Only in death. But for her, death hadn’t been stillness. She didn’t get to lie down at the age of eighty seven and just never wake up again. Harry died in motion, in fear and agony, a bullet ripping through her brilliant brain and crushing her life to dust. 

He clenches his fists, which are bound to the sides of the metal folding chair. He has been in this position before, with many different people. Mycroft, Moriarty, the Chinese Triad all those years ago. But it had never felt quite like an ultimatum before. 

_Sticks…_

There were electrodes on his chest and temples. He had lost his shirt a while ago. He was waiting for Jim to come back in the room. The criminal had just finished talking to Sherlock, all threats and snarls and sneers. Sherlock must have figured it out by now. Sherlock must know about him, and he must hate him. For John, this was agony. He treated his friend like shit this past week or so, but he did it all to protect him. Sherlock had been one of the lucky ones. He had escaped the maelstrom of Moriarty relatively unscathed. Unfortunately, John had not. He wasn’t even sure what the man wanted anymore. Revenge? Justice? A new right hand man? Or mutually assured destruction? Whatever it was, he wasn’t about to pull Sherlock down with him.

_...and stones…_

There was a knock at the door, and John drew his attention away from his irritated, red wrists and towards the doorway. 

“Johnny? Are you decent in there?” Moriarty’s voice lilted up and down, up and down. John wondered if he was ever a choir boy before he became a homicidal maniac. 

“Yeah,” he called, tone inflecting nothing but disinterest. He knew what was coming. He heard the threat that Moriarty had made to the Holmes brothers. Electricity. It wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to him. Not by a long shot. He had the scars that he hid under his shirt to prove it. But it wasn’t the best either. He was hungry, exhausted, still slightly drugged up from his stint in the hospital and desperately thirsty. The odds weren’t exactly in his favor, something that he was sure Moriarty had picked up on. Not that he cared, the bastard.

Moriarty opened the door, smile sharp enough to cut glass. He was beaming, dressed to the nines as usual, looking John over with an approving gleam in his eye. The jarring contrast between Jim’s suit and his vulnerable state of undress did not escape him. 

“Why John, you look lovely tonight,” he said, softly, a parody of a lover’s whisper. John was acutely aware of what his arms must look like, criss crossed with scars, and his back, well, he didn’t even want to start on that. 

“I wish I could say the same about you,” John countered, a small smirk playing on his lips. 

“John, John, John… you really shouldn’t insult the man with the remote to those electrodes in his hand.” As if to emphasize his rebuke, he clicked the button lightly, for a mere second. The electrodes flickered and hummed to life on his skin, and sent knives of agony up and down his spine. But in an instant it was over. He clenched his fists, but defiantly said nothing. “What a brave pet,” he cooed, circling John and poking at his scarred back. 

“What’s the game,” John growled through clenched teeth. The jolt from earlier hadn’t been much, but the promise of more was making his stomach churn. Moriarty stopped behind him, making John tense with discomfort. Never, never put your back to the enemy.

“Four hours,” the words were spoken right into his ear, making him shudder slightly. He felt Jim withdraw and cross back into his view. 

_...may break my bones…_

There was another shock, and John couldn’t help but breathe out sharply. He was beginning to sweat. He couldn’t trust himself to speak, lest he let out a groan or any sound that gave Jim satisfaction. As if anticipating John’s thoughts, the man spoke.

“It’s okay Johnny, you don’t have to speak. A stable relationship between two parties allows for companionable silences.” He stared down at his nails with feigned disinterest and allowed the silence to sit heavy on the air. John didn’t speak. Neither did Jim. 

Shock.

John gritted his teeth together. 

Shock.

This really wasn’t that bad, all things considered. Mycroft had tried the same thing, and it had yielded very little results. Surely Moriarty must know this. Why then, was this happening?

Shock.

“I’ll admit, I’m rather impressed with your perseverance John,” Moriarty said with a mocking paternal smile. 

Shock. 

“You would make a rather stunning right hand man. Just picture it. With you and me together, nobody could stop us. We could take Mycroft down,” he watched John’s expression carefully, gauging his reaction. 

Shock. 

John couldn’t help it. He let out a low groan, barely audible. But Moriarty heard it. His grin turned feral. 

An extra long jolt, but John held his tongue this time.

“Join me, Johnny Boy, and we could stop this. I would even consider sparing Sherlock.” 

“Fuck you.” John wheezed, muscles beginning to contract. Sweat pooled at his brow and dripped into his eyes. Jim leaned forward and ruffled his hair.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, a little too happily. “I would have been disappointed if you had given up that easily.”

_...but words…_

John felt something well up inside him, something that screamed for blood and retaliation. A spike of adrenaline flooded his weary system, and his bloodlust was overtaking his rational thoughts with frightening speed. 

“You know how easily your man gave?” John said, gathering strength and grinning up at the man he hated most, expression keen and wolfish. Jim froze minutely, and shifted on his feet slightly towards the bound man. 

“Shut up,” he said, voice hoarse. John ignored him.

“Dear little Sebastian Moran. The man you had pointing a rifle at my head during Sherlock’s fall. Sebby, Jimmy’s most trusted _friend_.” John sneered. “He was so easy to find. The killer versus the tiger. Silly Jim, don’t you know that the hunter always wins?”

“Don’t talk about him,” Jim said, eyes flashing. He seemed to momentarily forget that he held the key to John’s pain in his hand. 

“He screamed as I killed him, you know. He begged me to finish it.” John’s eyes were flints, devoid of compassion. He knew how this would end. He would get hurt. He might even die. But if he was going to go, like this, in the hands of a madman, he'd be damned if he didn’t drag Moriarty down with him. “He begged me as I cornered him, as I took out my knife, and carved my name, a calling card, letter by letter…”

Within a flash, Jim was in his space, face contorted with anger. He grabbed John’s throat in a bruising grip. There could have been tears in his eyes, but John couldn’t be sure. His eyes were black as night. Fevered, unrestrained, demonic. Demons don’t cry. With his other hand, Jim cradled the assassin’s face, gently, calmly. 

“Oh John,” he sighed, with no trace of his lilt for once. Just straight up Irish accent. No other facades breaking though. He stroked his face absently, seemingly staring through John, not really seeing him. “It would be wise for you to hold your tongue. You fascinate me Johnny. You were the one that slipped under my radar, and nobody does that to me. I want you at my side. But if I have to break you, make you scream before hand, I will. I will devour you, John Watson. Don’t forget your _place_.” He let go of his throat suddenly, and danced backwards, manic grin in place. “After all, I’m the one holding the remote.”

_...will never hurt me._

John screamed, and Moriarty laughed. It wasn’t until John’s vocal chords gave out that Moriarty stopped pressing the damnable button.

“You didn’t even last an hour,” the man tutted, looking disappointed. John was panting. The last electrocution had lasted too long, and he couldn’t stop shaking. With a sinking feeling, John knew that he could never have held out the four hours. The madman would never have allowed it. “What will Sherlock say when he learns that his lion failed so spectacularly? Why don’t I send him a little gift?” 

“Don’t,” John panted. “Sherlock doesn’t have... t-to do with this. This is… you an’ me…”

“Why John,” Jim said with a painted on smile and a knife in his hand, “it almost sounds like you care for the little fucker. Now, hold still~” The knife descended, and John gave in to the black fogging his vision. The last thing he heard was Moriarty’s shrill whistling as he cut off his fingers.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had chapters 8-17 completed on my other account for a long while and I forgot to post them here. This story (as well as my others) are on hiatus until I finish a Hannibal fanfiction I've been working on. Sorry for the wait/inconvenience.

It was without a doubt that Sherlock was going to figure out what little Johnny Boy was hiding before the four hours were up. He had seen the way the man’s face had crumbled as he cut the feed, the flicker of uncertainty that marred his perfect, blank features. Although he had moved on from this man over three years ago, Jim couldn’t help feeling a flash of smugness at kicking his old nemesis in the ass. 

Now, there was only silence. After the conference ended, he left John to the devices of his men, who were putting on the electrodes, setting the stage. The final scene of their play. Jim smiled a little, twistedly wistful as he looked back at the years that had brought them here. All of the banter, the losses, the scars. But it was worth it. He had John, and it was over. By the time the assassin left the room, it would be willingly, by his side. Either that, or he would never leave the room again. He idly hoped it wouldn’t come to that. How tedious.

He stalked up to the closed door, white washed and devoid of character. What promise lay beyond this shoddy woodwork! It hardly did the man on the other side any justice. He slowly ducked his head and pressed his face up to the grainy wood. He stood still, listening to the barely audible sound of John’s stuttering breath. He was nervous. Poor Johnny. He rapped lightly on the door and grinned at his prey’s sharp intake of breath.

“Johnny? Are you decent in there?” he called, letting his voice caress the words and swing up and down. His voice did many interesting things when he let it. It was part of the reason why his persona as Richard Brook had been so convincing. 

A beat.

“Yeah,” the man on the other side said, voice flat. Jim nodded internally in approval. Strong. Very impressive. 

Tension laid thick in the air as he opened the door and stepped through. This was a familiar scenario for them. Sometimes, it was John who was strapped to the chair, and other times it was himself. The universal rule was, when dealing with dear, dear Johnny Boy, the one in the chair always got hurt. He sensed apprehension rolling off John in waves, but it was different than other times they had confronted. This seemed more final. Whatever happened here would change the course of their intertwined fates forever. 

“Why John, you look lovely tonight,” he said, smiling at John’s discomfort. His eyes lingered on the scars on the man’s skin, scars that he had left there. Across his rib, his arms, his back, and his stomach. Many of them had nasty memories attached, memories of hurt and bitterness, revenge and savageness that Jim had dealt out in wild, untamed moments. That was the second year after the fall. That wasn’t a good year for either of them.

John hardly missed a beat before shooting back, “I wish I could say the same about you.” Childish. It was weak, but the effort was there. John was clearly trying to smirk, but it looked more like a grimace. Jim pretended to be insulted.

“John, John, John… you really shouldn’t insult the man with the remote to those electrodes in his hand.” He flicked the remote teasingly, lightly. He saw John’s eyes tracking his hands, and then the man tensed. It was the only reaction. Jim drank in John’s subtle pain like a man dying of thirst… the clenching muscles, the slight twitch in his left eye. Beautiful. “What a brave pet,” he purred, thinking back to that moment that Jim first got alone time with John, at the pool. He had called him a pet then too. But now it meant something different than a simple degradation. It was a promise. He longed to press the button until John was screaming, twitching on the floor, but it was far too early for that. He instead poked at the scars on his back, the large, swirling I.O.U. that he carved in his trademark swooping script.

“What’s the game,” John growled, bearing his teeth in a clear display of aggressiveness. How cute. Jim leaned forward, tickling John’s neck with his breath and causing the man to shift in discomfort. 

“Four hours,” he whispered, withdrawing smoothly and crossing back to the front so he could see John’s face. It was impassive, a wall that was created especially to keep him out. He would enjoy breaking it. 

He pressed down on the button, more forcefully this time, and was rewarded by a sharp exhalation. There was a vein ticking in his temple as his body responded to the pain without his consent. It wouldn’t be long before he began to sweat, Jim knew. He also knew that John wouldn’t last very long under this stress. Under any other circumstance, he could last ages under the torture and not even come close to breaking. He knew from personal experience. But now, everything was catching up with the world weary assassin. The death of his sister. The abduction. His stay at the hospital. He body was craving food, water, and sleep, all of which had been denied. Not to mention his rib was probably still aching. Still, the man was resolutely silent. He gave no vocal signs of his discomfort.

“It’s okay Johnny, you don’t have to speak. A stable relationship between two parties allows for companionable silences.” He hadn’t expected a response, but he let his comment hang in the air. He looked down at his fingernails, and noted that they were looking a bit worse for wear. He wasn’t used to torturing people himself… he had underlings for that. But for John, he’d do it. He’d do anything to crawl under that man’s skin. He was a living contradiction: killer and healer, traitor and friend, cold and compassionate. It was as if John couldn’t quite decide which half of himself he wanted to be. It would take some work, but he was determined to mold John, to shove him towards the parts of himself he had long ago buried. The man who took pleasure in the hunt, who was a merciless mercenary who could kill in more ways than strictly necessary.

He made a sociopath care. And now, it seems, he made a psychopath possessive. 

He pressed the button again, watching for John’s reactions.

Again.

Gritted teeth.

Again. 

Rigid muscles, slight trembling.

Again. 

A brief shuddering of his limbs, but quickly reined in. 

“I’ll admit, I’m rather impressed with your perseverance John,” he conceded with a pleasant hum. It wasn’t as if he expected anything less.

Again. 

“You would make a rather stunning right hand man.” He wasn’t lying. John would be beautiful, equipped with a rifle, killing in his name. He smiled.

He recognized the glint in John’s eyes. It was like his own. Too many variables going through his head without an outlet. Jim could give him an outlet.

Again.

This time, a low groan tore itself from John’s throat. In the relative silence of the room, it was like a sweet hymn swimming through a church. 

He pressed the button again, holding it down longer than before.

John didn’t concede this time. Jim would have liked to hear John’s voice again. He’ll just have to be patient.

“Join me, Johnny Boy, and we could stop this. I would even consider sparing Sherlock.” ...that arrogant twat. 

“Fuck you,” John grunted, spitting it out from his abused body. His muscles were contracting of their own volition, and his skin was shining with sweat. Jim smiled.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, a bubble of a laugh welling up in his throat. “I would have been disappointed if you had given up that easily.” _And if I didn’t get to hear you scream at least once._

John’s countenance, the impassive wall, began to crumble before his very eyes. Anger and festering hatred broke through the cracks, and caused Jim to grin back at the twitching man before him. 

“You know how easily your man gave?” 

Like sand, Jim’s grin sifted off his face. He felt his stomach drop. John was like him. He knew how to hurt, even without his hands. John’s mouth was twisted into a manic grin, expression cruel. 

“Shut up,” he said softly. He was, of course, referring to Sebastian, his sniper, the only man he had ever trusted with his life. They lived together, Sebastian in the basement with his ridiculous gun collection and penchant for leaving cigarettes all over the place. He looked at John balefully, and only saw himself. He was struck with a pang of self loathing, but ruthlessly pushed it aside. 

“Dear little Sebastian Moran. The man you had pointing a rifle at my head during Sherlock’s fall. Sebby, Jimmy’s most trusted _friend_.” John sneered, and Jim felt wild hatred, devoid of reason and logic, well up in his shattered soul. He was torn between wanting John and his desire to rip him apart. “He was so easy to find. The killer versus the tiger. Silly Jim, don’t you know that the hunter always wins?”

“Don’t talk about him,” Jim said, posture straightening. The man had saved his life so many times, far outside the realm of pure professionalism. They shared drinks outside of work, just like two ordinary blokes. It was the only time he had liked feeling ordinary, dull. Sebastian, the military reject, who put up with his mood swings and violent tendencies. Even shared his violent tendencies. They had ripped apart many people together, just as friends. He had been there at the pool, when Jim had first confronted Sherlock and John. He had been pointing his gun at the doctor, ready to blast him apart at his command. 

He hadn’t been all that smart. He wasn’t really anything special. Maybe it was that he was just never afraid, not even of Jim. Either way, he was gone now. John had murdered him.

“He screamed as I killed him, you know,” John continued, relentless. Jim could feel the stabs of hatred coming from the man. _This is for Harry. This is for Sherlock. This is for me, and the life you unburied._ “He begged me to finish it. He begged me as I cornered him, as I took out my knife, and carved my name, a calling card, letter by letter…”

Jim remembered that day. The second anniversary of Sherlock’s fall. Jim had been in Iran, coordinating affairs. He should have never left Sebastian back there, where a manic John was running around, bloodthirsty and pushed to the brink by his own machinations. He found Sebastian in his flat when he came back, two days dead, with a messy slash across his throat and John Watson’s name and a smiley face cut neatly on his chest.

Things had gotten complicated after that. Jim hurt John, and John hurt Jim back. It was no longer a mind game. It was rabid. Jim had gotten John in his grasp that very day, and pinned him down as he carved the I.O.U. into his back. He had never meant the phrase more than he had then. 

“I owe you, John Watson,” he had snarled, pushing the blade into the taut flesh of the back and dragging harshly. John howled, squirmed, and laughed. For the first time, Jim wondered if he was right in unburying this monster. 

_“Strike a nerve, did I?”_

The memory burned in his eyes, and he snarled, trying to dispel the image. Before he knew it, he was strangling the man in front of him. He knew he could end this man’s life if he wanted to. John gazed up at him, defiantly, and Jim felt a surge of twisted affection for him. He reached out and caressed John’s face, scratching lightly at his stubble. His emotions were too intense, too much at once, they were all bleeding together in a cacophony of maim, hate, admire, possess, adore. 

“Oh John,” he breathed, letting his true voice through. His mind was overloaded, too much input at once… but one idea hovered above the maelstrom of his instability. Revenge. “It would be _wise_ for you to hold your tongue. You fascinate me Johnny. You were the one that slipped under my radar, and nobody does that to me. I want you at my side. But if I have to break you, make you scream before hand, I will. I will devour you, John Watson. Don’t forget your _place._ ” He reluctantly let go of John’s throat, and stepped backwards lightly. He vaguely noticed that he was grinning. “After all,” he whispered conspiratorially, thumbing the remote in his hand, “I’m the one holding the remote.”

He pressed the button, over and over, until John finally relented and screamed. But he couldn’t make himself stop. He wondered how much Sebastian had screamed when John rubbed the salt in the gashes his had made on his chest. 

Despite protests from the half of his brain that was still shrieking for blood, Jim stopped pressing the button. He observed the man before him, panting, shaking uncontrollably. John was a thing of grace in his agony. 

“You didn’t even last an hour,” he sighed, giving John a look of mock sadness. “What will Sherlock say when he learns that his lion failed so spectacularly? Why don’t I send him a little gift?” 

“Don’t,” the man panted. Jim’s lip curled over his teeth. “Sherlock doesn’t have... t-to do with this. This is… you an’ me…”

“Why John,” he said with a cracked smile and a knife in his hand, “it almost sounds like you care for the little fucker.” Like I cared for Sebastian. “Now, hold still~” He brought the knife down to John’s right hand, whistling as he worked.

**Author's Note:**

> Short, but chapters get longer later.


End file.
